


Inside and Out

by Evilpixie



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 51,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilpixie/pseuds/Evilpixie
Summary: Clark fails to answer a call for help... and Bruce pays the price.Or, the one where Bruce goes to prison.





	1. Chapter 1

Clark was in space when it happened.

 

Hal had found a crashed alien spaceship on an asteroid on the edge of the solar system. He’d said it looked Kryptonian… but it wasn’t. The moment Clark saw it he knew the Green Lantern had been mistaken. The language inscribed into the machinery was similar but strange, the bodies humanoid but clearly damaged despite what once was a solar fusion engine, and the ship’s square design starkly different from anything he had seen from Krypton. They were aliens… but they weren’t Kryptonian.

 

He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. A part of him had dreaded finding evidence of Kryptonians dying so close to a yellow sun… to a new home… to him. But another part of him had also thought perhaps - if this _had_ been a ship of Kryptonian refugees - then that meant his rocket wasn’t the only one that made it off Krypton. That meant there was a chance there were other ships – other survivors – scattered around the galaxy.

 

But it wasn’t Kryptonian.

 

It wasn’t.

 

And that meant…

 

His communicator crackled in his ear.

 

_“Su… Superman. Com… Come in.”_

 

He wanted to ignore it. He almost did. He almost pulled it out and crushed it in his hands. But then the man used his name.

 

_“Clark… Clark come in… I…”_

 

He tapped the device. “What is it Batman?”

 

 _“I need…”_ The signal was disrupted. Ripped apart by patches of static. Clark wasn’t surprised. Teleporting sound particles through space was never an easy task even for the best relay. _“I… I ne…”_

 

“Batman. What do you need?”

 

_“I… hel… No. It’s… Clark I…”_

 

He cut to the chase. “Do you need backup?”

 

A pause. _“I… no.”_

“Are you in danger?”

 

_“No.”_

 

“Can you contact someone else?”

_“No. I just... I need you.”_

 

He wanted him to read some file at super speed or help him identify something that the molecular level. Normally he was happy to help out with that sort of thing. But just then… “I can’t help you right now Batman.”

 

_“Clark…”_

 

“I’m busy.”

 

_“It’s n—”_

 

He pulled the communicator from his ear and turned it off.

 

He didn’t know then what was happening. He didn’t know why Bruce had called. He didn’t care. All he cared about was the numbing isolation he felt hovering in a crashed alien space ship and the strange sense of anticlimax it brought. Not his best friend. Not the hiccups in his voice that may or may not have been caused by static. Not any of it.

 

It was a moment he would regret for the rest of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim Gordon stood in the hallway, hands shoved deep into his pockets and cigarette held unlit between his teeth. His eyes were down. Fixed on the bare floorboards as if reading something only he could see etched into the wood. “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

 

“Yes,” Bruce answered.

 

“Do you really?”

 

Again. “Yes.”

 

“Hm,” he pulled a lighter out of his pocket and after a few tries got it to produce a meagre flame. He cupped his free hand around it and brought it up to light his cigarette. Still his eyes never left the floorboards. “May I ask why?”

 

“You know why.”

 

“I’m not sure I do.”

 

“I mu—”.

 

“I know that part,” Jim interrupted him. “It doesn’t take the world’s greatest detective to figure out that part. What I’m asking is _why_.”

 

Bruce studied him. “He was—” he tried again.

 

“No.” Jim stopped him. Angrily this time. “I don’t care what he was doing. I don’t want to know what he was doing. I didn’t ask you for what he was doing. I asked you _why_ , Batman. After everything you and I have been though together I think I deserve a goddamned answer.”

 

“Jim.”

 

He looked up then. Finally. His eyes dark with betrayal. “Why are you giving up?”

 

Bruce stood in the hallway. His armour felt heavier on him than usual. A persistent punishing weight. He didn’t know what he was meant to say. So he said nothing at all.

 

“Goddamn you,” Jim said almost matter-of-factly. “Goddamn you to hell.”

 

“Jim,” Bruce said again. “I need you to do this.”

 

“And what if I say no?”

 

“I will ask Bullock.”

 

“Bullock,” Jim echoed once before lapsing back into silence.

 

Bruce waited. He waited while Jim’s cigarette burnt down ignored between the man’s fingers. He waited while the rain continued to thunder down around him. He waited while the communicator stayed dead and silent in his ear.

 

Then… Jim flicked his cigarette out the window and pulled something else from the back of his belt. In three short steps he was behind him.

 

“Bruce Wayne,” he said and pulled his hands behind his back. “I’m placing you under arrest for crimes against the city.” The handcuffs clicked into place over his gloves. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”


	3. Chapter 3

Clark walked to work the next day through bitter blustery wind. The kind of wind that snatched away hats, tugged at trench coat tails, and turned umbrellas inside out. The kind of wind that sucked heat away though even the thickest clothes. The kind of wind that most people wouldn’t walk to work in.

 

But he wasn’t most people.

 

He wasn’t sure if he was even people.

 

“Smallville,” Lois greeted him with a quirked eyebrow as he slumped down behind his desk. “You’re late.”

 

“Just a little.”

 

“Two and half minutes. That’s a new record for you.”

 

“Ha ha.” He wiggled his mouse and clicked random keys on his keyboard, willing the computer to wake up and remind him where he left his work off the day before. It was, as always, painfully slow. “What are you even doing here? Didn’t you have that thing last night? Doesn’t Perry owe you a sleep in?”

 

Lois snorted. “As if I would stay home for that on a day like this.”

 

He frowned. “What’s so special about today?”

 

“You know, “ Lois said, still typing. “Batman.”

 

Clark felt his breath tighten. “Batman?”

 

“Yeah.” She didn’t say anything else.

 

In the most normal voice he could muster. “What about Batman?”

 

She looked up from her screen and blinked. “Oh Lord. Don’t you know? Jesus, Smallville. Where have been? Hiding under a rock? Taking a trip to the other side of space?”

 

“I…”

 

She turned her monitor around to show him. “It’s all over social media. Was supposedly leaked last night by a cop from the GCPD. Talk about the story of the century, right? If it’s true that is.”

 

Clark stared. He stared and stared and stared. And yet he still couldn’t seem to take it all in.

 

He saw Bruce – handcuffed, maskless, and yet still in his batsuit – being marched through the GCPD. He saw a comment counter already in the hundreds of thousands. He saw strings of sentences popping up like prizes on a slot machine.

 

_Photo leaked from the GCPD last night._

_Click here to find out Batman’s secret identity!_

 

_#BruceWayneisBatman_

_OMG Batman is hot!_

_The Batman arrested picture is fake and here’s why._

 

_#BruceWayneisBatman_

_Bruce Wayne is Batman!_

_GCPD stay silent on Batman photo._

_#BruceWayneisBatman_

 

“I’m flying into Gotham tonight to get my nose to the ground.” Lois went on. “Get the statements. Get the reactions. See what’s going on. Jimmy’s coming just in case.”

 

“You’re going?” Clark rasped.

 

“Yep,” she turned her screen back around with a playful smile. “Story’s mine. Should have been here, Smallville. Not wandering around with your head in the clouds.” 


	4. Chapter 4

The police officers either stared or joined in an uncertain round of applause as he was marched through the station and into the holding cells.

 

He was put in one by himself which he expected. He was left in his suit which he had not. They knew enough to take his belt and insisted he get rid of the gauntlets and their menacing spikes. But, even without those tools, he had more than enough gadgets left to escape.

 

He stayed sitting in the far corner of the cement cage instead.

 

He sat there for what felt like an age before a Jim arrived with a letter in his hand.

 

“One billion dollars,” Bruce read aloud.

 

Jim. “You can afford it.”

 

“Hm.” He pushed the letter back through the bars. He didn’t need to tell Jim what that meant.

 

“First you make me arrest you now you won’t even take bail.”

 

 “It’s the right thing to do.”

 

“Bullshit,” Jim said but there was no strength behind it. Even if there had been it couldn’t have possibly hurt him as much as what he said next. “Robin’s on the roof.”

 

Bruce felt his whole body shudder. Damian… “Tell him to go home.”

 

“No.”

 

He frowned. “Jim…”

 

“No,” Jim said again. “I’m not going up there and telling that boy to go home. Not when his dad is down here refusing to go home with him.” A pause. “He is your son, isn’t he? The one that always says something insulting to some higher up whenever you take him to a party? The ten year old?”

 

“Thirteen,” Bruce rasped.

 

“They grow up so fast.” Jim pushed the bail letter back through the bars. It dropped to the floor at Bruce’s feet. “Go home. Hug that boy of yours. Eat Alfred’s cookies.” A hard look. “You might not be able to very soon.”

 

“Jim I… I can’t.”

 

“You can.”

 

“Everything I stand for. Everything that I care about.  _Everything_. I…”

 

“That has doesn’t mean anything now. You’re under arrest. You’ve confessed. Your house has a warrant against it. Facebook somehow got a hold of a picture of you in a batsuit.” A firm look. “You’re going to prison, Mr Wayne. I don’t think there is anything I can do to stop that. Not now. I am not giving you freedom or forgiveness. I am telling you that there are a few things you need to do before you go.”

 

He looked at that letter. Looked at that number. Thought about his son… and about what he'd done.

 

"I can’t."

 

“Yes you-”

 

“No Jim. I..." he closed his eyes. "No." That word hurt more than he thought it would. Hurt more than he thought it could. But he couldn't leave. He couldn't. Not after what he'd done. Not when Damian...

 

“Well well,” Bullock emerged from around the corner to lean up against the bars.“Looks like Batty Bruce is sleeping over after all. Good thing I brought some pyjamas." He shoved a rolled up bundle of clothes between the bars. They dropped down onto the bail notice at his feet. Bulky and orange. "You know the drill. Squat and cough just like the lesbos."

 

His eyes moved from the clothes back to the man.

 

"Hey," Bullock grinned. "If you're going to be the taxpayer's problem you've got to follow some rules. Rule one. No capes."

 

Jim didn't say anything. Face down and hands in his pockets.

 

Bruce turned his back on both men and slowly began to dismantle his suit.


	5. Chapter 5

The next time Clark saw Bruce it was at the hearing. He had expected him in a suit and tie surrounded by an army of lawyers. Instead the billionaire was accompanied by what looked like a court appointed attorney and outfitted in a standard issue orange shirt with the words ‘Gotham City Department of Corrections’ printed in bold black letters across his back. Clark, in contrast, wore his Superman suit. He would have liked to have attended inconspicuously as Clark Kent but the story belonged to Lois and he doubted he would be able to write it anyway. Not when it was his best friend standing up there waiting for his life to be decided.

 

"Are you okay, Kal?"

 

"I..." He looked up and back down. "Yeah. I'm sorry I... I'm fine."

 

"Are you sure?"

 

"Yes."

 

Diana didn't look convinced. She sat in the pew beside him wearing ceremonial Amazonian armour and a 'I support Batman' sticker from the small band of enthusiasts outside. He hadn't expected to see her here today but in retrospect he shouldn't be surprised. Bruce was her friend too and unlike Clark she had never once failed to be there when he needed her.

 

Without saying a word Diana reached out and took his hand. He wasn’t sure why she did that. They weren’t a couple, despite what _Superhero Insider_ wanted everyone to believe. Perhaps it was custom among the Amazons to hold hands with those you were familiar with. Perhaps she was trying to show the world that the League stood together in support of their fallen member. Or, perhaps, she somehow sensed how much he appreciated the small token of togetherness.

 

“How do you plead?" The presiding magistrate solemnly. "Guilty or not guilty?”

 

Bruce spoke without a moment’s hesitation. “Guilty.”

 

Clark didn’t let himself flinch. He kept his eyes fixed forward and the prosecutor presented the case in stark detail. Bruce’s lawyer took to the floor for a few minutes to talk about what Bruce did for the city both as a benefactor and protector; as billionaire and Batman. It was a stirring speech and prompted a few odd cheers from the gathered onlookers.

 

“We love you Batman!”

 

“Let him go!”

 

The magistrate didn’t waste time trying to settle the crowd. They took a brief recess where press swarmed unapologetically around Clark and Diana then reconvened for sentencing. Clark held his breath through the whole thing.

 

“Bruce Wayne. This hearing finds guilty of unlawful vigilantism, assault and battery, intimidation, obstructing justice, and murder in the second degree. By the powers vested in me by the state of New Jersey I hereby order you to…”


	6. Chapter 6

“Fifteen to life? Jeez. That’s rough. Real rough.”

 

“Not rough enough if you ask me.”

 

“Aw, come on Benny. He’s _Batman_. It just seems a little harsh is all after everything he’s done.”

 

“You mean terrorise a city? Torture people? Murder that guy?”

 

“Okay okay. Take it easy. He can hear you, you know.”

 

“I don’t care if he can hear me.” A loud thump against the van’s interior wall. “You hear that?! Huh?! You hear that, Batman?! I think you’re a piece of shit!”

 

“Hey man. Calm down. He turned himself in, remember?”

 

“After what? Twenty fucking years. And all his little friends are still out there. If it were up to me he would never walk the streets a… Shit!” The van lurched to a halt with a skid of breaks and a blare of car horns. “Jesus Christ, don’t people know how to drive around here? He almost hit us. How long will we get there?”

 

“We’re really close now.”

 

The van started moving again as Bruce quietly collected that new piece of information.

 

They were close…

 

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. A part of him wanted to be there. To take stock of his surroundings. To figure out what he would need to do or not do to survive where he was going. Another part knew once he was behind those walls he wouldn’t see anything outside them for a long time.

 

Fifteen to life. It seemed both strangely forgiving and brutally hard. With his confession and the crimes stacked up against Batman the magistrate could have given him a lot more. A part of him thought he deserved a lot more. But… Damian would be almost thirty when he got out. It was hard to imagine. As much as he was doing this for Damian, as much as he needed to do what he had always promised himself he would do, the agony of missing that much time weighed on him.

 

He beat down that feeling and concentrated on the lurch and roll of the van beneath him as it wove through Gotham’s outer suburbs. It was comforting in way. A noise of an engine. The feeling of movement…

 

Then it stopped.

 

Bruce blinked as the door in his compartment was pulled open.

 

“On your feet.”

 

Bruce complied. With difficulty. His hands were bound at his waist by a brutally tight belly chain and his ankles were shackled together by a pair of legcuffs. The restricted movement was viscerally uncomfortable and a part of him itched to escape. He held his hands clenched in fists, fighting back that instinct as the guard pulled him out of the van.

 

The noise started a moment later.

 

“I’m going to kill you Batman!”

 

“Batman!”

 

“You’re dead! You’re fucking dead!”

 

“You ain’t The Bat!”

 

“Superhero scum!”

 

“You put me in here! You did this to me!”

 

“You’re going to be my bitch, Batman!”

 

Underlying it all was a chant. Loud. Powerful. Unrelenting. “Bat-Man! Bat-Man! Bat-Man!”

 

Bruce regarded the inmates pressed up against the mesh fence. Some he remembered. Some he didn’t.

 

The guard looked almost apologetic as he took him by his chain and lead him forward. “Welcome to Blackgate, Mr Wayne. We’ve been expecting you.”


	7. Chapter 7

The first day Bruce was in prison was the first day Clark watched him.

 

He wasn’t sure why he did it. Perhaps it was morbid curiosity. Perhaps it was in the hope of seeing something that would ease the pit of guilt at the base of his stomach. Perhaps it was to make sure he was okay.

 

Whatever the reason Clark spent an hour that day in the clouds above Blackgate Penitentiary bearing silent witness as the admittance staff took Bruce’s details again and again and again. He watched as the medical team performed every health and drug test known to man. He watched as an overly jolly man took photos of Bruce’s face, profile, and scars all the while joking about supermodels and talking about Batman.

 

“That’s it. Beautiful darling. Just like that. Hmm… So, anyway, my uncle’s store was broken into a couple of years back and none of you bat people did anything about it. What’s up with that?”

 

He watched the more private things too. The things he probably shouldn’t watch.

 

Bruce’s lips moving as he memorised his inmate ID. Bruce’s hand clenching and unclenching over and over again. Bruce’s eyes focused on the same patch of wall as he waited to be called to his temporary room assignment.

 

It took almost half an hour but eventually they took him out of the waiting room and locked him in a cell with a terrified looking boy.

 

Clark left while Bruce was making his bed. He wasn’t okay… but he was there now. There was no real comfort in that thought but there was a strange sort of finality to it. Unless something drastic happened Bruce would stay in that cell for at least a couple of weeks while the prison staff decided if he belonged in a low, medium, or high security cellblock.

 

Clark hoped it wasn’t high. He doubted Bruce would be allowed in low security with his reputation and a murder charge but Clark had visited Lex Luthor in prison enough to know what life was like in maximum security. He hated to see his worst enemy in that position. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to see his best friend there.

 

It had been hard enough seeing him today… But by the same token he couldn’t bare not knowing. He couldn’t bare not at least seeing him even I they could no longer talk, or touch, or do any of the things he hadn’t realised were so important to him until they were suddenly removed from his life.

 

“Don’t go back,” he whispered to himself as he flew slowly through the sky. “Don’t. He’s fine. He’s strong. He’s doing what he has to do. You have to let him do that. You have to be strong too. You have to move on. You have to…” he trailed off.

 

The second day Bruce was in prison was the second day Clark watched him.


	8. Chapter 8

“Master Bruce.”

 

Bruce looked up. And then he stood up. “Alfred.”

 

The man looked exactly the way he always did. Immaculate. Silver hair combed back, moustache tripped to a stately line, and collar buttoned up to his Adam’s apple. Despite that there was something different about him. Something Bruce couldn’t name.

 

They didn’t hug. Bruce wasn’t sure if he was allowed. He wasn’t sure if Alfred wanted to. By the time he had filtered through those uncertainties the moment had well and truly past.

 

“Damian?”

 

Alfred frowned and sat down. “He did not wish to come.”

 

Bruce slowly sat back down. Digested this.

 

“He will come around, Master Bruce. You just have to give him time.”

 

“What about the others?”

 

“They’re well. Dick has told me he plans to visit when everything dies down a little bit.” A pause. “He’s very busy with work.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“ _Hm_ ,” the butler bowed his head. “I envy that.”

 

“You know why I’m doing this, Alfred.”

 

“Yes, sir. I know why.” Softly. “I’m just not sure I understand _how_. If I were you…” He rubbed his forehead. Sighed. “It doesn’t matter now.”

 

Bruce sat there feeling like he was all of ten years old. Alfred never yelled at him as a boy. He never made him clean up messes or do chores. But, somehow, he always knew when Alfred was disappointed in him. Not angry. No. Disappointed. In those moments he would wish he would yell at him… but he never did.

 

“The police came,” Alfred said. “They didn’t find the cave.”

 

That hadn’t been part of the contingency plan. If this ever happened Alfred had agreed he would show the police where the cave was… but that contingency plan had been made when it was just him and Alfred. Before the boys…

 

“Thank you.”

 

People would suspect. It was too easy a connection to make. They would suspect Dick, Tim, and Damian of being his allies. But, without any evidence, that was all they would ever do. Suspect.

 

“I mean it. Thank you, Alfred. For everything. I…”

 

“That’s quite alright, sir. It was the least I could do.”

 

Visitation didn’t last long after that.

 

This time, when he stood, he and Alfred somehow managed to coordinate a brief hug. It was stiff and awkward… but it was enough.

 

“I’m sure Damian will come next week.”

 

Bruce nodded but didn’t say anything.

 

The walk back to his cell was long and isolated. A few guards sneered at him and a few more nodded as if his shirt were blue rather than orange. The inmates avoided him. That was something he was quickly becoming used to. While most of the prisoners in general population made no secret of wanting him dead those in the admissions block seemed to just want him as far away from them as possible. It was a distance he preferred as well.

 

Still, he could tell there were some among them that were harder than others. Some who for them this wasn’t the first time in prison… nor their first time dealing with someone they didn’t like. Gang members, career criminals, newcomers with long sentences that needed a way to earn respect in the prison. He saw them watching. He saw them talking… he didn’t pretend he was safe.

 

That night his cellmate, as usual, slipped in the door the last possible second.

 

He looked at Bruce.

 

Bruce looked at him.

 

The boy visibly shook before rushing to sit on the edge of his bed.


	9. Chapter 9

Perry was giving a speech.

 

Clark had long since lost track of what it was about. The death of newspapers, probably. Or maybe he was listing the many evils of the Daily Star. Normally Clark quite enjoyed listening. The man had a way with words. Today he was struggling.

 

Bruce was doing push ups in his room. One hundred with one arm. One hundred with the other.

 

Before that it had been sit ups and before that a leg workout.

 

That was a lot even by Bruce’s standards… and Clark didn’t know if he was building himself out of boredom or if there was another reason. Perhaps he was feeling threatened or perhaps he just needed to do something to help him feel in control of the situation…

 

Clark forced himself to look away and focus on Perry.

 

This was getting out of control. Way out of control. This is what stalkers did before building shrines and locking the object of their affection in the cupboard. This is what obsession looked like. This was… _too much_.

 

He needed to move on. He needed to let Bruce go.

 

He just wasn’t sure how to do that.

 

Loneliness wasn’t a new feeling for him. It had been a reoccurring theme in his life ever since he left home and started making his way through the world. Throughout most of his adult life he had been alone. Secret identities and alien origins tended to do that. But he had endured. He’d even learnt to like it. He loved being independent. He loved making his own decisions and being his own man. Perhaps that was why he got on so well with Bruce. Bruce valued his privacy. What’s more, despite the files on the batcomputer which might suggest otherwise, he was also very good at respecting Clark’s.

 

Time with Bruce wasn’t about sharing himself… it was about _being_ himself.

 

And somehow that was how they had become best friends. The best of friends. Perhaps the only friend he really felt one hundred percent free around. He hadn’t realised it. Not at the time. Not when it really mattered. But once Bruce was gone he felt that lack. Because there was no one else he could spend time with who he could really be comfortable with. No masks. No performance.

 

He closed his eyes and sighed.

 

He missed him. But that wasn’t the whole story either. He was still feeling guilty for not answering that call. He didn’t know what would have happened differently. Perhaps he would have stopped Bruce killing. Perhaps he would have been able to talk him into not turning himself in. Somehow he doubted it… but he owed Bruce to try. Or, at least, be there for him when he needed him.

 

Instead he had stayed floating on the far reaches of space hating how alone he was… while refusing to respond to his best friend.

 

It all felt like some cruel cosmic joke.

 

“Kent!”

 

He started. “I’m sorry Mr White I…”

 

“Was a million miles away?” Lois suggested.

 

“Pay attention,” the man snarled. “If you didn’t write like a goddamned angel you would be out on your arse faster than a… a…”

 

“Speeding bullet?”

 

“That’s enough out of you, Lane.”

 

She smirked.

 

“Mr White. I…”

 

“Now that all this Batman bullshit has started to die down I need something a little bit puffier and more poetic to follow it up. You’re my poetic puff man, Kent. Go out there and find me some story that can wrap this whole thing up. Some kid crying in the gutter because his favourite superhero is in prison or something. You can manage that right?”

 

He swallowed and bobbed his head. “I’ll find something.”

 

“You better.”

 

In the back of his mind he heard Bruce grunt as the man switched arms again to do another set.


	10. Chapter 10

 As always, his cellmate ducked through the door just as it slid shut.

 

Bruce looked at him.

 

He looked at Bruce.

 

He was nervous. No, nervous was the wrong word. He was usually nervous. Today, he was terrified. His hands were knotted in his shirt, eyes wide, and face dotted with sweat. He was also standing awkwardly… feet apart, face forward… as if getting ready to dart forward.

 

Bruce slowly closed the book he’d been reading, set it aside, and stood up.

 

“Give it to me.”

 

It was the first four words he’d spoken to his cellmate. The first four words he’d said to any fellow inmate.

 

The boy stared. “H-huh?”

 

“The weapon,” Bruce held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

 

Nothing.

 

“I won’t hurt you if you give it to me.”

 

For a while his cellmate stood stiff and tall… then, all at once, he deflated. Shoulders sagged, head bowed, and eyes sunk to the floor. He reached into his pocket, drew out a sharpened plastic spoon, and set it in Bruce’s hand without a word.

 

Bruce studied it. Simple. But deadly.

 

“They told you to kill me, didn’t they?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Who?”

 

No answer.

 

“Will they hurt you for not killing me?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Bruce dropped the spoon to the ground and kicked it out the cell door with enough force that it would slip off the balcony and drop to the middle of the cellblock. The guards would find it but they wouldn’t know which cell it came from.

 

The inmates would know.  They would know exactly what happened.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

At first he didn’t think the boy would answer… then.

 

“Richard.”

 

The name threw him off balance for a moment. “Richard,” he echoed. “Do you shorten it to…?”

 

“Ricky,” the boy said.

 

“Ricky,” he echoed in relief. “Okay.”

 

“Everyone calls you your last name here but…” he shuffled his feet.

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Nineteen.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Carried some stuff.”

 

“What kind of stuff?”

 

“Bad stuff.”

 

He studied him. Ricky was black with a hollow collarbone and long bony limbs. His prison uniform was well within regulation even if it hung off his narrow frame. Pants high, shirt buttoned and ID on full display. If he didn’t hunch so much he might have even been taller than Bruce.

 

“Hm,” Bruce turned his gaze to look him in his eye. “Would you like me to show you how to stop them hurting you?”

 

Ricky looked up.

 

“Come here,” Bruce moved back into the body of the cell and lifted his arms into a shield. “Show me how you punch.”


	11. Chapter 11

Bruce had made a friend. Or, at least, that’s what Clark thought it was. It was hard to tell. While he watched Bruce a lot he didn’t watch him every hour of every day. In the past that hadn’t mattered. Now, he felt like he had missed a key episode in an ongoing series. He wasn’t sure exactly why Bruce and his cellmate were suddenly getting along or why Bruce seemed to be teaching the kid martial arts. All he knew was that, despite barely saying a word to one another and despite the boy’s efforts to distance himself from Bruce while outside of their cell, it was clear they were getting closer and closer.

 

It made Clark feel both happy and sad at the same time. Happy because, no matter where Bruce was he clearly didn’t change. Sad because he couldn’t tease Bruce about it like he normally would. No cocked eyebrows, no barely smothered grins, no embarrassed scowls.

 

But, while Bruce was settling into his life behind bars, life outside the walls of Blackgate wasn’t getting any easier. Gotham’s crime rate was ticking slowly but surely upward, the anti-superhero movement had risen from the grave, and - while the public was getting bored with Bruce’s story – media attention had turned to his family.

 

Clark tried to tell himself what he was doing was different. He wasn’t trying to out Robin or heft more weight onto the shoulders of the guttered family.

 

Perry had asked him for a puff piece. He had asked him for a boy crying in a gutter because his favourite superhero was in prison. The only good Clark could think of accomplishing with that article was telling Damian’s side of the story. A boy who had lost not Batman, but his father.

 

In retrospect, he should have expected Alfred’s response.

 

“No.”

 

Clark blinked. “No?”

 

“No,” the man repeated.

 

“But…”

 

Firmly. “You are welcome to visit as a friend, Mr Kent, but I know very well while you have chosen this moment to stop by.” A hard look. “I will not allow you to publish anything that comes out of that boy’s mouth.”

 

“I didn’t mean…”

 

“As long as you are in this house you are not a reporter.”

 

Clark opened his mouth to protest… then stopped himself. “I understand.”

 

“I’m not sure you do.” The butler carefully measured out the sugar and stirred it into the tea. “I have decided to remove Damian from school for the time being. He can barely leave the house now without a photographer or gossip journalist trying to hunt him down.” Quietly. “The others have had similar problems. Vicki Vale showed up to Dick’s apartment last night and demanded he tell her if Batman sexually abused him when he was Robin.”

 

Clark reeled. “Jesus.”

 

“He, of course, told her he was never Robin and that Bruce was his father. But, he is an adult and much more capable of handling that sort of thing. Damian is still a boy and with everything that has happened…” Alfred’s voice softened. “I need to protect him. I am sure you understand.”

 

“Is he okay?” Clark asked.

 

“No,” Alfred said. Didn’t say anymore.


	12. Chapter 12

“Batman?”

 

Bruce opened his eyes. It was the first time Ricky had ever spoken to him without being spoken to first. His voice small and tentative.

 

“Why are you helping me?”

 

The lights were off and all he could see of the other inmate was the shadow where his bed was.

 

“Because you need help,” Bruce said.

 

A pause. Long. Heavy. “Is that what it’s like being a superhero? Helping people just cause?”

 

“For some of us.”

 

“Not you?”

 

Bruce shifted. “There are better heroes than me out there.”

 

“Like who?”

 

This wasn’t a line of thought he wanted to go down.

 

“You know,” Ricky whispered. “When I was little I used to pretend I was a superhero. Not you. Everyone hated you. But Flash or Green Lantern or…”

 

“Yes,” Bruce interrupted him before he could go any further.

 

“I had a mask,” Ricky went on at a whisper. “And a magic amulet. And a name. And a sheet I would wear as a cape.”

 

“Capes,” Bruce heard himself scoff. “Why would you waste your time with one of those? They’re awful.”

 

“But…” He heard Ricky roll over in his bed. “You wore the biggest cape out of everyone.”

 

He didn’t say anything.

 

“Is…? Was that…?” The boy sounded nervous again. “Did you just make a joke?”

 

More silence.

 

Bruce thought the boy had given up and was just about to lapse back into sleep when he spoke again.

 

“I never wore my underwear on the outside though.”

 

Bruce couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

 

It was the first time he’d laughed in what felt like a very long time.

 

The next morning, as usual, Ricky left as soon as the cell opened. And, as usual, Bruce gave him enough time to integrate back into the mass of other inmates before stepping out himself. Once he was on the balcony he looked down and re-established where Ricky was in the throng of orange uniforms assembling in the foyer below.

 

He stuck with a small gang of boys, most around his own age, and all his own colour.

 

“Wayne!” One of the guards called. “You’re holding up the count! Get down here!”

 

Something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what it was. From the outside everything looked normal but there was something about the way the inmates were standing and jostling. Something about the way they looked at each other and stood closer together.

 

“That’s a warning Wayne! Get down here now!”

 

He walked slowly down the stairs, studying the inmates, and finally fell into formation at the very back of the line. The guard yelled at him while another took rollcall and then they were being marched out the door towards the cafeteria.

 

It was a hundred metre trek across a straight gravel path. The only time a day they were allowed outside. The guards kept them marching in a messy line and didn’t stop the inmates from talking as they shuffled along. Bruce listened to that talk. To any hint of why today might be different from any other day.

 

Halfway to the cafeteria he got it.

 

“Tweet tweet,” one of the inmates sung out. “Little birds goes tweet tweet for the big bad b—!”

 

“No!” Bruce charged forward through the wall of orange bodies. Shoving, pushing, running.

 

Up ahead a team of inmates yelled out as they attacked.


	13. Chapter 13

Clark had been getting dressed for work when he heard Bruce cry out. A single word.

 

“No!”

 

He didn’t stop to think. He just moved.

 

Out of his apartment. Across the space between the two cities. Down into the mess of fighting inmates at Blackgate.

 

Bruce was among them, grabbing, pushing, and punching when they lashed out at him.

 

Clark acted.

 

All in a breath he knocked the attacking inmates to the ground, shoved a few into a nearby wall, and crashed all weapons to powder in his hands. He left the five around Bruce, confident the man could take care of those without a problem and was about to knock the last one down when he paused.

 

It was Bruce’s cellmate. Young. Terrified. In the middle of the fight and fighting back but… Clark paused a split second to see if the boy was attacking or defending himself… and in that split second he saw the kid’s eyes light on him.

 

Clark bolted back up into the sky before anyone else saw and watched from within the clouds as Bruce knocked down the last of the attackers and paused to stare in disbelief at his cellmate standing among twenty grounded attackers

 

“How did you…?”

 

“On the ground!” The guards barged into the scene. “Everyone get down! Muller! Wayne! Down now!”

 

Clark watched as Bruce’s cellmate flung himself down. Beside him, Bruce eased slowly, suspiciously down onto one knee, then the other, and finally onto his belly. It took another whole second for his hands to find the back of his head. He knew something had happened. He didn’t know what. But he knew.

 

“Shit,” Clark swore and raked his hand through his hair. He hadn’t meant to do that. He hadn’t meant to interfere. But he had. When Bruce had yelled out ‘no’ there wasn’t a force on the planet that could have stopped him. If they’d been inside Clark would have flown through the roof without a moment’s hesitation. “Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit…”

 

“What the hell happened?” One of the guards snarled.

 

“I… I didn’t…” Bruce’s cellmate started. "I..."

 

“It was me,” Bruce said quickly. “I did it.”

 

The uninvolved inmates shifted where they lay on the ground. It had been crowded. It had been fast. But more than one of them knew where Bruce was when this happened and it wasn’t where all the unconscious bodies were now.

 

“Batman,” the guard glared. “Of fucking course. Trying to start shit in my cellblock. Well, you ain’t a fucking flying hotshot anymore and these bad guys are already locked up. So are you.” He gestured. “Take him to isolation.”

 

“Sir.”

 

Two guards stepped forward and quickly shackled Bruce’s hands behind his back. As he was pulled to his feet he looked at his cellmate. His cellmate looked back. Clark wasn’t sure what was in that look, if anything, but part of him knew what he had done today wouldn’t be quickly forgotten... by anyone.


	14. Chapter 14

The first fifteen hours of isolation was easy. That was due, in part, to the fact that he had a mystery.

 

How had Ricky taken down so many men so quickly?

 

He’d paced, ponding the question, until a kind faced guard slipped a magazine under his cell door. Bruce quickly tore the thing up, crumbled pages into balls of paper, and set them out on the floor. He mapped the fight scene, each ball of paper an inmate and tried to imagine how, in less than a second, what happened happened.

 

He applied every angle he knew. Thought through all the moves he had taught Ricky. It didn’t make sense. _He_ couldn’t take down that many men so quickly. So how had Ricky? There was something he was missing. Some missing piece of information.

 

When the guard came back the next day Bruce had knelt down at the slot in the door to look up at him. “I need to talk to Richard Muller.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Inmate ID 2884875. Muller. He is—was my cellmate. I need to talk to him.”

 

The man frowned. “You know I can’t do that, Batman.”

 

“Two minutes. Please.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

One day turned into two. Then three. Then four. On the fifth day he had a disciplinary hearing. It was conducted in a small office without any pomp and circumstance. He stood against the wall in a belly chain and leg cuffs while a woman behind a boxy computer read out the new charges which would appear on his record. When he plead guilty she sentenced him to an extra month in solitary and lectured him about how this would affect his final placement in the prison.

 

It didn’t matter. Ricky was a nonviolent criminal. He had a chance of getting into minimum security where he would be fast tracked for vocational training and be kept an arm’s length from the worst criminals… _if_ he could stay out of trouble.

 

He would never have been targeted if he hadn’t been put in a cell with Bruce. The least he could do was take the blame. He only wished he knew what he was taking the blame for. How had Ricky taken on so many men in so little time? Did he have some fighting skills he didn’t show Bruce while training? Were some of the inmates helping them? Did Ricky have unearthed superpowers?

 

He didn’t know and it was eating him alive. He asked the guard to talk to Ricky again. As before, he said no.

 

Day six was slow and torturous. Day seven even worse. He tried meditating but the itch of the unsolved mystery never let him stay still long. The very thing that had made the first hours being in this cell durable made it insufferable now. He paced, he exercised, he unfolded the balled up pieces of magazine and read every word.

 

On day eight he realised he was missing visitation. It was like taking a blow to the gut. What would Alfred think when he was told Bruce couldn’t see him because he was in solitary? What if Damian had come this time? Or Dick?

 

On day ten he composed a letter of apology out of the remnants of his magazine. He wasn’t sure who it was for.

 

On day twelve they gave him a razor when he was in the showers. He guard watched him shave with a critical eye.

 

On day fifteen the guard feeding him forgot to give him a second piece of bread. It frightened him how angry that made him. How sad. How utterly _not himself_.

 

Isolation should be easy. He had voluntarily isolated himself in Tibet multiple times when he was in his early twenties. But somehow this was different. When he was twenty the longer he stayed isolated the more he knew, the more he achieved. Now the longer he was locked away the longer it would take him to find out if Ricky was okay, if he really did knock out all those inmates, if he had even been let off the hook or if he was sitting in some other solitary cell somewhere nearby…

 

He banished that thought and did another round of exercise. He was exercising too much for the volume of food he was eating. He knew he was gaining muscle but losing condition. Maybe he wouldn’t be if that fucking guard knew how to count bread.

 

On day nineteen the warden came.

 

“I haven’t formally introduced myself, Mr Wayne. I am…”

 

“Carlson Grey,” Bruce said.

 

“Yes,” the man smiled through the window in the door. “I should have known you would know. World’s Greatest Detective. I must admit, you are the most high profile prisoner I have ever had under my care. Billionaire. Superhero. Arkham’s fetch-it boy.” A big grin. Ugly. Toothy. Bruce hated grins like that. “I am sorry I didn’t come to speak to you earlier. I’m also sorry it has to be under such...” he looked around Bruce’s cell, “…unpleasant conditions.”

 

The man was crooked. Bruce knew it. He’d known it since the man first took up the position as warden. He’d never done anything about it because all his crime was relatively petty especially compared to others in Gotham. He’d even covered up Batman and Robin breaking into the prison ten years earlier.

 

Some criminals were useful to keep around.

 

“Do tell me if there is anything I can do to make your life more… _comfortable_.”

 

Perhaps he could be useful again.

 

“There is one thing.”

 

The man’s grin grew. “Name it.”

 

“Muller,” Bruce said. “Richard. Inmate ID 2884875.”

 

The warden looked surprised for a moment… then this grin came back. Bigger. Uglier. Nastier. “You got it, Batman.”


	15. Chapter 15

Perry’s voice was worryingly soft. “What is this, Kent?”

 

“My article,” he rocked nervously from foot to foot. “The puff piece. On Batman.” A pause. “You asked for a kid crying in the gutter.”

 

“And you gave me a man child bitching in his bedroom.”

 

Clark looked down. “I… I didn’t want to do anything political for a puff piece and… there aren’t that many people who are _emotionally_ effect by all this.”

 

“You’re telling me the best you could find was the secretary of the Batman fan club?”

 

Clark was silent.

 

“New York Times got the kids from that orphanage he sponsored to send him a ‘we love you’ letter in the mail. The Daily Star did a story with forty of his ex-girlfriends. _Forty_. Most there is no record of him ever meeting though some have some raunchy pictures to prove their tongues at least made acquaintance. At least ten claim Bruce swore he would give up the mask to be with them… but they nobly refused believing his duty to the city far greater. The Gotham Gazette somehow tracked down Richard Grayson and—”

 

“I know what the Gotham Gazette did,” Clark interrupted.

 

Perry tapped his desk. “Yes. Can’t say I approve of that. But, damn it, it’s done the trick. Their papers are selling like hotcakes. So is the Daily Star’s. And the New York Times’. You know whose papers aren’t selling?”

 

Clark bowed his head.

 

Perry sighed. “What’s with you, Kent? First the pumpkin festival piece and now this?”

 

Hurt. “What was wrong with the pumpkin festival article?”

 

“Apart from the fact that it was a pumpkin festival? Nothing. It was absolutely fucking perfect. So perfect it sounded like it had been written by a robot.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Look I eh…” the man suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “I hate to pry but the last time you wrote like this your father had just died. Is there… eh… anything you’re going through? Because if you are…”

 

“That’s very kind of you, Mr White, I…”

 

“…I’m sure Lois would be happy to talk to you about it.”

 

Clark blinked. “Um… no. That’s okay. I… it’s nothing.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The man rubbed his brow. “You’re a great writer, Kent, but you’re a terrible liar. Look just… go home. Take a couple of weeks off.”

 

“I’m fine, Mr White. I can write a…”

 

“I’m not making a suggestion, Kent.” He looked up. “Let’s make it a month. Take the time off and when you come back we’ll see where we are. Okay?”

 

Clark stared. He couldn’t believe this. He didn’t want to believe this. Work was the only thing keeping him busy since Bruce put away and now he was being what? Fired? For writing about a fan boy and a pumpkin festival? He knew it wasn’t his best work ever but it wasn’t _that_ bad was it? And, even if it was, how was he meant to write when he was responsible not just for putting Bruce into prison but into isolation?

 

“Okay?” Perry pressed.

 

“Okay,” Clark echoed, voice a hollow scrape. “I… okay.”


	16. Chapter 16

When the guard arrived to take him to the shower the next day Bruce knew something was different. It was the same guard who had slipped him a magazine and apologised whenever Bruce asked to speak to Ricky. Someone who was sympathetic to Batman’s cause. Or, at least, he had been. The rough angry way the man cuffed his hands and barked at him to get moving told him whatever respect he once held for him it was now gone.

 

Bruce carefully filed away that information and kept his head down as he was marched down the corridor and into the small concrete showers. There he found another discrepancy with the guard’s behaviour. Normally he would follow him in and watch him wash. This time he stopped at the entrance and unlocked Bruce’s cuffs with a withering look.

 

“You have ten minutes.”

 

Something was happening… and Bruce only had one guess as to what it was.

 

He dropped his towel and toiletries on the floor and marched around the concrete divider into the shower.

 

Standing there, looking utterly terrified, was Ricky.

 

“B-Batman? What’s happening? Why am I here?”

 

“It’s okay,” he whispered and turned on the shower, well aware the guard was probably listening. “I talked to the warden. I asked for you.”

 

Ricky’s eyes grew wider. “You asked for me? Why? I… I don’t…” he shivered as the icy water splashed down around them. Soaking their orange uniforms. “I… I’m not gay, Batman.”

 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he promised. “I just need to talk.”

 

In disbelief. “Talk?”

 

“Yes,” he rubbed his brow. God, what was he doing? The guard, the warden, Ricky… they all thought he had arranged this to fuck him. Maybe rape him. The idea made him feel sick to the stomach. “I just… I need to know what happened that day. When they attacked you.”

 

“I…” Ricky looked down. “I didn’t do it. It just… happened.”

 

“Was it superpowers? Do you think you…?”

 

“No. I mean. Yes. But… it wasn’t me. It was this other guy.”

 

That wasn’t something Bruce had considered. He had thought maybe the inmates had somehow, despite all probability, fought with each other and knocked themselves out. but a single other inmate? Why? What sort of powers did they have if they could take down so many people at once? Surely, if someone had those powers, they wouldn’t stay in a prison designed to hold ordinary humans.

 

“Who?”

 

“I don’t know. I just saw him for a second. He was big.”

 

“Fat or tall?”

 

“Tall. Tall as you. He had glasses, a brown suit, and…”

 

Bruce frowned. “A brown suit?”

 

“Yeah. With a tie.”

 

“A tie?” Bruce felt his frown deepen. “A civilian? How?”

 

Ricky looked apologetic. “I don’t know, man. I just saw him for a second and then he was gone.”

 

“Three minutes!” The guard called out.

 

Bruce rubbed his brow. That didn’t make any sense. Ricky must have imagined it. There was no other explanation… unless…

 

“This man. Was he white?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Dark hair?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Clean shaven with a red and yellow striped tie?”

 

Ricky stared at him. “How’d you know?”

 

Bruce closed his eyes. _Clark. What are you doing?_

 

“Two minutes!”

 

“How are you?” Bruce asked, softer now. Less urgent. “Is everything okay?”

 

Ricky looked uncertain for a moment but then he bobbed his head in a small nod. “Nobody tried shit after you left. I, um, reckon they were scared of me. See, the guards thought you took out those guys but most of the guys thought it was me. They don't know how I did it but... It doesn’t matter now though.”

 

“Why?”

 

Ricky’s eyes were unreadable. “They moved me. I’m in a permanent cellblock now.”

 

“Minimum security?” Bruce could hear tentative pitch of hope in his own voice.

 

Ricky shook his head from side to side. “Gen pop. They, eh, said there was no room in minimum and with the war on drugs and everything…” he looked down. “Yeah. It’s okay though. No one there knows I know you so they leave me alone mostly.”

 

“Mostly?”

 

“Mostly. I've had to hit some guys.” A small smile. “That weird way of punching you do works.”

 

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “I know.”

 

Ricky laughed.

 

“Time’s up! Get out here now!”

 

Bruce looked Ricky up and down one more time, looking for any bruises or marks. Then, without another word, he obeyed.

 

The guard looked shocked to see him fully clothed and dripping wet but wasn’t any gentler re-cuffing him for the walk back to his cell.


	17. Chapter 17

Clark was going mad. The stress of losing Bruce and his job had tipped him over the edge. That was the only explanation. Because Bruce _can’t_ have said what Clark thought he just said. That just wasn’t possible. There was no way. Not in a million…

 

Bruce said it again.

 

“Clark?” A pause. “Are you there?”

 

Clark hovered in the clouds feeling like a peeping tom caught in a flashlight.

 

How had Bruce found out he was there? What if he hadn’t? What if Bruce had just spent too long in isolation and was now talking to himself? Yes. That had to be it. That…

 

“I hope you are,” Bruce muttered, his voice low and unguarded. Not Batman’s growl or the firm tone he had been using with people he met in prison. “I know I shouldn’t hope that. I should hope you’re getting on with your life but… _fuck_.”

 

Bruce wasn’t talking to himself. He wasn’t talking to God or his kids or anyone else. He was talking to _him_.

 

How was Clark supposed to answer? There was no way he could respond without ripping through the walls. There was no window for him to hover at. No crack in the roof for him to whisper through. Even if he yelled as loud as thunder he didn’t know if Bruce would hear it through the three foot thick walls. “Bruce… I… I’m here I…”

 

Bruce sighed and buried his face in his hands. He was sitting on the edge of his bed looking utterly exhausted. “I’m probably talking to ghosts but… if you are listening Clark… I… thank you for saving Ricky. Thank you for… for _everything_.”

 

“No Bruce,” Clark whispered, knowing it was hopeless. “Don’t. Please don’t thank me for this. It’s my fault.”

 

“Remember that time?” Bruce went on, headless of Clark’s answer. “That year we first met. You saved me from Darkseid.”

 

“You saved me first,” Clark said.

 

“I told you not to carry me.”

 

“Your leg was broken.”

 

“You called me an idiot.”

 

“You were an idiot.”

 

“I called you a nanny.” Bruce smiled to himself. “You never stopped nannying me did you?”

 

“I’m fairly sure it's mutual Mr threaten-Lex-while-he-tries-to-sleep.”

 

Bruce laughed as if he heard what Clark said. Perhaps he had, in his mind’s eye. It was a piece of banter they’d shared more than once. “God,” he lay down in bed, still smiling though as Clark watched that smile became small and sad. “I miss you, Clark.”

 

That was the last thing he said before slowly slipping off to sleep.

 

Clark stayed up there for a long time studying the man. The beautiful brilliant man who had somehow figured out he was watching him, who was keeping himself sane in a concrete box for who-knows-how-long, and who – for the briefest of moments – had somehow made Clark forget the four feet of concrete and steel between them.

 

How could such a man be in prison?

 

Clark sighed and turned to fly home. “I haven’t done a good job nannying you have I?”


	18. Chapter 18

The last ten days of solitary were slow but durable. He perfected his ever growing daily workout routine, finally managed to centre himself enough to meditate, and repurposed the pages of his magazine to prop up one leg of his bed.

 

When things became too tedious he talked to Clark. He didn’t know if the man was listening or not. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was, for a while at least, he could pretend he had a piece of his old life back.

 

And that piece was his best friend.

 

He told Clark about Ricky. How the boy tried to kill him, how he’d trained him, and even Ricky’s childhood dreams of being a superhero. He told him about prison food, how the showers had no hot water in segregation, and which guards he thought were crooked and clean. He talked about the first time they met, the missions they’d gone on together with the Justice League, and the ridiculous comedy of errors that had somehow led them to being dubbed ‘The World’s Finest’.

 

He tried speaking in Kryptonian a few times but the language, as usual, proved frustrating. The basics were fairly simple and, while he could convey meaning, to do so eloquently with such complex grammar and bizarre sounds was a challenge. He knew if Clark was there the man would be clucking his tongue and shaking his head.

 

He knew if Kara was there she would be popping her hands on her hips and telling Clark he wasn’t that much better.

_“ **Ksh**. It’s pronounced with a **ksh** , Kal. Not coosh.”_

_“Kish?”_

_“No. **Ksh**._

_“Ka-shh?”_

 

_“Rao, I am sorry you have to hear this butchery of your language. He is but a baby.”_

 

“ _Excuse me, young lady?”_

 

Bruce smiled at the memory.

 

It was strange. Since this started he had been trying to avoid thinking about Clark. During his hearing he had even kept his eyes forward to avoid looking at Superman seated in the second row. He had thought prison meant the end of that part of his life and didn’t want to dwell on it... But then Clark had rescued Ricky.

 

It was probably a one off thing. That would explain why Clark had been in his civilian clothes. He had heard the riot and dropped what he was doing to fly in and save the day. Yes, that made sense. The likelihood was that Clark was happy and moving on with his life. That was good. That was what Bruce wanted him to do. But… a small selfish part of him hoped… maybe… just maybe… Clark was sticking around.

 

“You know,” he said to his most-likely-imaginary friend. “I never told you h—”

 

“Wayne!”

 

The shutter on the door slid back and a red face guard peered in at him through the porthole window. “Who you talkin’ to?”

 

He paused mid push up. “Myself.”

 

“Heh. Time to stop that crazy shit. You’re done with solitary. Warden’s personally assigned you to a permanent cellblock.”

 

Bruce pushed himself onto his feet. He had been hoping for more time in admissions but he would take a permanent cell assignment. Anything, even an army of angry lifers, was preferable to isolation.

 

The guard watched as he stripped the small cell, bundled up his belongings in his bedsheet, and slung them over his shoulder. Carrying such a bulky package while cuffed at the wrists and ankles was a challenge but one he embraced without complaint as he was marched out of the solitary unit and into a van.

 

He still didn’t know if he was going to maximum security or general population. He didn’t ask. He just watched as they moved past one cellblock, and then another, and another, and another… finally the driver stopped.

 

Cellblock D.

 

Gen pop.

 

It seemed unfair he got the same assignment as Ricky given the fact he was a murderer who had also confessed to knocking twenty fellow inmates unconscious but he accepted it without question. The guard took off his shackles before entering the unit.

 

Unlike admissions the cellblock it wasn’t in lock down when he walked in. The inmates were scattered around the commons area exercising, playing cards, or clumped together bartering over stashes of coffee. Also, unlike admissions, these inmates didn’t seem to be scared of him.

 

“Lookie here! We got the Bat!”

 

“Of all the cellblocks they could’a sent ya…”

 

“You’re _preeeetty_ out of that mask, batty boy.”

 

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

 

“I want his rich boy shoes when we’re done.”

 

“Remember me, Batman?”

 

Bruce ignored them all and followed the guard to a cell in the back corner of the upper landing. He pushed inside and dropped his belongings on the unoccupied bed.

 

“Have a lovely stay,” the guard as Bruce cracked his knuckles and stretched out his neck. Too old for this. Always got stiff before a fight…

 

“Batman?”

 

Bruce froze. Turned to look at the inmate sitting on the other bed.

 

“Ricky?”

 

The boy looked as horrified as Bruce felt.

 

The odds of getting placed with the same cellmate again were next to none. There was no way this was chance. This had to be… The guard’s words from earlier bubbled up in his brain. _Warden’s personally assigned you to a permanent cellblock_. The warden. The warden thought... “Wait!”

 

Bruce charged out the door and grabbed the guard’s arm.

 

“Hands off, inmate!”

 

“Put me somewhere else.”

 

One of the nearby inmates. “You scared, Bats?”

 

The guard. “You got your assignment inmate.”

 

“No! Tell the warden to put me somewhere else.” Ricky said the inmates were leaving him alone now that they didn’t affiliate him with Bruce. All that wound end now. If he was a target in admissions that would go triple for here. These prisoners weren’t new transfers or first timers. They were comfortable in this environment. They were career criminals. They were men he had met more than once on the streets as Batman. “Tell him, I want to be put somewhere else with a different cell mate.”

 

“Poor little rich boy doesn’t want to play with us without his armoured bat suit.”

 

“Chicken, Batman.”

 

“Never figured you to be a coward.”

 

“We’ll get you no matter where you run.”

 

“Quiet down!” The guard yelled. “You maggots start anything and I’ll finish it! You want to spend the night in the infirmary, huh?! No? Then play nice.” To Bruce. “You have you assignment, inmate. You don’t like it? You can make a formal complaint.” He glared at Bruce one more time before marching away.


	19. Chapter 19

Bruce’s cellblock was in lockdown. Clark didn’t need three guesses to figure out why.

 

Bruce had a black eye, a stiff walk, and skinned knuckles. At least ten other inmates had simular injuries with some looking like they should probably be in the infirmary. Missing teeth, broken noses, and swollen fingers were everywhere and yet wherever the guards went they got the same answers.

 

“Didn’t see nothing.”

 

“Fell down the stairs.”

 

“Fight? There weren’t no fight.”

 

When they arrived at Bruce’s cell on the far end of the upper row the whole cellblock fell into silence. But, if the guard was hoping for a lead, he didn’t get it.

 

“What happened?”

 

Bruce spoke without any inflection or emotion. “I didn’t see anything.”

 

“How did you get those bruises?”

 

“I fell down the stairs.”

 

“Who started the fight?”

 

Eyes steady. “There wasn't a fight.”

 

The guard glared at Bruce through the window in his door. “I thought you were better than this, Batman.”

 

Bruce’s face was unreadable. “My shirt’s orange, sir.”

 

“It sure is.” The man’s gaze slipped to Ricky sitting small in the corner of the cell before turning on his heel and marching back along the upper landing. When he was on the top of the stairs he called out, loud enough for all the inmates to hear. “Far as I can tell this is a cellblock full of blind best friends with a _very_ slippery set of stairs.” His tone of voice told them what he thought of that. “Tomorrow you’re _all_ going to scrub these fucking stairs until they shine. And then you’re going to wait until they dry and are _safe_ before you get breakfast.” He spat on the floor. “You scumbags are lucky I don’t have enough solitary cells for every one of you.”

 

He marched out.

 

The moment he was gone the cellblock broiled with noise. Men laughed, others cursed, and some called out to each other.

 

Bruce walked back into his cell and sat beside Ricky.

 

Clark watched as the man checked Ricky for injuries.

 

The boy shook him off. “They didn’t get me.”

 

“Are you…?”

 

“I said they didn’t get me!”

 

Bruce pulled his hands back and lapsed into silence.

 

“Why didn’t you tell them what happened?” Ricky asked after a while. “It was Big Franko’s gang who started it. I saw. You saw. Why didn’t you tell the guard?”

 

Clark knew the answer to that. Bruce was fresh out of solitary. Even if he told the guard he was being victimised because he was Batman the odds of him being locked up again for his own protection were high. And so he held his silence.

 

He’d been holding his silence for the last few days in more ways than one.

 

When Bruce started talking Clark’s whole world had changed. Watching Bruce had stopped becoming about despair and loneliness and started to be about comfort. He would relive old adventures, learn about Bruce’s new life through the man’s eyes, and forget, for a moment at least, about his guilt. It wasn’t having his best friend back, but it was as close as he could get.

 

And now it was over.

 

Bruce was almost never alone in his new environment and even when the other inmates were giving him some space he remained on high alert; watching not just them but their interaction with Bruce’s cellmate. Clark didn’t blame him. While no one had targeted Ricky yet the hostility for both Batman and ‘his bitch’ wasn’t hard to spot. In admissions Bruce had tried to keep the boy out of trouble by keeping his distance. It hadn’t worked and this time Bruce instead made no secret of the fact that he was watching Ricky’s back.

 

Ricky seemed to have mixed feelings about that but still let Bruce train him when the doors were locked.

 

Even so, the pair barely spoke and the amount of Bruce’s attention devoted to keeping an eye on him as well as the near constant presence of other, potentially hostile, inmates meant Bruce didn’t speak to Clark either. Clark didn’t mind. As much as he missed hearing Bruce he didn’t need him to speak to him again… he just wished there was a way for him to return the favour. To give Bruce the comfort Bruce had given him.

 

But there wasn’t. He wasn’t on Bruce’s visitation list, the prison mailroom was already backed up with Batman fan mail, and the man’s phone privileges remained revoked following the incident in admissions.

 

He couldn’t do anything but watch and wait…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I have been so slack with responding to all your amazing comments. I really do appreciate the support and will get around to them as soon as I can. Work is really hectic and now that my current contract is starting to near it's end I'm also going back on the job market. This means my response time is slow and, unfortunately, my updates aren't going to be as regular as they were. This chapter was written in bits and pieces around everything else that happened this week and it took a while for me to piece it together. Hope you like it.


	20. Chapter 20

Bruce sat in the hallway and stared at his hands as the last inmates came through the door at the far end of the corridor. They walked by him without a second glance, talking among each other as they headed back to the cellblock. A guard following up the rear paused when she spotted him.

 

“Visiting hours are over, inmate. Get moving.”

 

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move either.

 

She sighed. “Yeah. I get it. It’s rough when they stop coming. On your feet.”

 

“I want my mail,” he said softly.

 

“Mail came yesterday.”

 

“No.” He looked up and he saw the spark of recognition in her eye. There weren’t many people who didn’t recognise him now. “Everyone else’s mail came yesterday. Mine didn’t.”

 

She frowned and crossed her arms. “Everyone else gets one letter, Wayne. Current count in your inbox is one thousand six hundred and twenty one. You’ll get it when we finish checking it for contraband.”

 

“Alfred’s letters always have the Wayne Manor address on the back. 19 Pa—“

 

“I know you’re not asking me to fish though all that looking for one envelope, inmate.”

 

“Please I…”

 

“That’s enough. You want a letter? Write one yourself. Now on your feet.”

 

He glared at her. The black ferocity of the hatred inside him frightened him. He wanted to hit her. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to make her understand how much of a monster she was being for no giving him his mail. He bit back that feeling and slowly stood. Prison, he was learning, intensified everything... anger, hate, and fear most of all. He’d been prepared for the violence, for the isolation, but not for how much more he needed simple things or how ugly and unstable he would feel when he didn’t get them.

 

He walked a few meters behind the rest of the inmates, head down and fists shoved deep into his pockets. When they made it back to the main building he went straight to his cell, sat on the edge of his bed, and tried to breathe through the strange black wretchedness clogging in the back of his throat. Why wouldn’t Alfred come? He’d spent a month in segregation. The last three days in lockdown. Why wouldn’t he come after that? Had the prison not told Alfred why he wasn’t showing up for visitation? Did Alfred think Bruce was avoiding him? Or was he avoiding Bruce? Or was it Damian? Or Dick? Or Tim? He didn’t know. _Fuck_ he…

 

He thought about what the guard had said and with a ragged curse crossed the tiny room and pulled open Ricky’s locker. He ripped out the last page in the boy’s notebook, took one of the prison’s two inch long pencils, and left the cell.

 

If he was going to focus on writing a letter he needed to be in a place where he could see if anyone was approaching him. A place where he had time to drop his pencil and defend himself if needed. There were only a few places he had access to like that. The main landing in the cellblock was one but it was also crowded today as the inmates assembled for religious services and Sunday afternoon free period.

 

The other place was outside.

 

Cellblock D only had a very small cement yard overlooked by a bored looking man in a guard tower. The ground was wet from all the recent rain and only a few inmates were outside exercising or throwing a basketball between them.

 

He went to the far corner, sat down despite the wet, and tried to think to put into words everything he needed Alfred and Damian to understand.

 

He sat there for ten minutes.

 

Then twenty.

 

With a snarl of anger he pushed the paper away. What did he expect? He had betrayed them. He had killed. He had left. Why would they stick around? Why was he so petty as to think they should?

 

He balled his hand into a fist and heaved through what felt terrifyingly like a sob. Fuck. No. Shit. He hadn’t cried since this whole thing began. He hadn’t let himself show that kind of weakness. He couldn’t now. He wouldn’t… he propped his elbows on his knees and rested his brow against the heels of his palms as the first drops of rain started falling around him.

 

He breathed. Slow. Ragged…

 

In. Out. In. Out. In...

 

Something stung him.

 

He flinched and looked at his hand. Frowned. There was a small patch of red on his wrist. Warm. Like a very mild sunburn.

 

He looked around to see what had caused it and froze when he saw something else.

 

Burnt on the paper were two words.  _Damian’s sick_. For a while his brain couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing… then a thin, almost invisible beam of red light shot down from the sky and burnt another line of words onto the page.  _Alfred stayed to look after him._

 

Realisation hit him hard. “C-Clark?” He looked up at the thick cloud cover… nothing above him. Nothing but air. Nothing, for the first time in weeks, between him and… “You’re really there?”

 

“Wayne!” One of the guards waved at him across the yard. “It’s raining! Inside!”

 

No. He couldn’t. Not when he’d just discovered…

 

 _Go_. Clark burnt into the paper.

 

“Clark. I…”

 

“Wayne! Don’t make me give you a warning!”

 

_Now._

 

He grabbed the page, shoved it into his pocket, and obeyed. The cellblock looked the same. The prisoners still sneered at him and the guards still glared. Ricky was praying and the basketball players were taking off their wet shirts. It was normal. But also completely different.

 

Because, despite everything, Clark was actually there.


	21. Chapter 21

It rained the next day.

 

And the day after that.

 

And the day after that.

 

Rain meant the prisoners weren’t allowed outside except during the short march to the cafeteria and back to the cellblock. That meant, until the weather cleared, he wouldn’t be able to talk to Bruce… His only comfort being the weather seemed to be frustrating Bruce as much as it was him. The man had hidden the paper Clark had written on in his mattress – if the guards found it they would probably call it evidence that Bruce had a lighter or some other form of contraband – and gathered a stack of blank paper.

 

Clark hadn’t planned on using his heat vision to send Bruce a message. He hadn’t even considered it a possibility. But then Bruce had thrown the paper down beside him and put his hands on his head as if trying to hold himself together. Clark had seen him, seen that paper, and acted without a second thought.

 

And just like that he’d done it. He’d touched Bruce. Touched Bruce the same way Bruce had touched him when he spoke to him from the solitary cell. _I’m here,_ that touch said. _I’m here for you._

 

He’d also said some other things… some things he needed to square with himself before he spoke to Bruce again.

 

If Alfred had been surprised when Clark showed up dripping wet in civilian clothes on his doorstep he didn’t show it. He waved Clark in without a word, got him a towel, and sat him down in one of Wayne Manor’s more homely living rooms. It wasn’t until he handed Clark his usual cup of tea that the butler spoke. “I trust you’re not here for the same reasons as last time, Mr Kent.”

 

“No. I… eh…” he took one awkward sip of tea and set it down on the table, “am taking a break from reporting.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It’s complicated but…” he sucked in a deep breath. Steadied himself. “I’m not here to talk about that.”

 

Alfred sat down. “What are you here to talk about, Mr Kent?”

 

“Alfred, I need to ask.” He looked up. “Why didn’t you go to Bruce’s visitation?”

 

The man blinked and then frowned. “Excuse me?”

 

“He was waiting for you. You never showed up.”

 

“He told you that?”

 

“Not exactly.” He met the butler’s look with one of his own. “I told him Damian was sick.”

 

Eyes narrowed. “And why would you do that?”

 

“He has been looking forward to this visitation for five weeks. When it didn’t happen he was in a bad way… and I thought it was the truth.” A pause. “It isn’t though, is it?”

 

Alfred didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The answer was evident in his eyes.

 

It was the answer Clark was dreading. When he’d flown over the prison and seen Bruce waiting alone at visitation he had turned immediately to Wayne Manor to make sure nothing had happened. He’d seen Damian in bed and Alfred trying to coax him into eating. He’d drawn simple conclusions.

 

But, now that he had a way to talk to Bruce, he wanted to tell the man about things he knew he cared about. First item on that list was Bruce’s family. To that aim he’d started paying closer attention to the household and had seen, every day, Damian get up out of his bed, train for four hours in the batcave, and return to his room without a word from Alfred or a scrap of food. Perfectly healthy… at least in the physical sense.

 

“Is this usual behaviour for him?”

 

“I’m not sure that is any of your concern,” Alfred said.

 

“Is it Bruce’s?”

 

“I don’t know. Is it?” Alfred crossed his arms. “It seems like you might be more aware of what’s going on between Master Bruce’s ears than I these days, Mr Kent. I was not aware you were even on his visitation list.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Then he has answered your letters?”

 

“No. He… we… it’s a long story.”

 

“Well,” the butler said, “I am glad you, at least, have managed to contact him. The only thing I have received in the last four weeks is a rather large 'amenity's bill' from the warden."

 

"Ah," Clark flinched. "That would be for Ricky."

 

"What has Master Richard got to do with this?"

 

"No. Ricky. Bruce's cellmate."

 

Alfred's brow arched. "I'm glad he's buying friends. When next you talk to him you can tell him Damian is perfectly healthy.”

 

Clark frowned. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He’s… been going through a lot. Segregation wasn't easy, the inmates are targeting him, and I'm worried telling him you missed visitation because you’re angry would…”

 

“No,” Alfred pinched his brow and sighed. He seemed to deflate with that sigh. “No. I… I am angry at him. And it’s getting harder and harder to forgive him when things have been getting harder and harder without him. But… that was not why I missed visitation.”

 

Clark waited.

 

“Your lie was closer to the truth than you know. Master Damian has been getting worse. I really would rather not leave him alone right now, you understand.” A sad look. “When you talk to Master Bruce, however you talk to him, tell him Richard will be here next week. Either him or I will come then.”

 

“And Damian?”

 

Alfred turned his gaze down to stare at the floor. “I have already watched one child grow up angry, alone, and orphaned. I must have done something truly terrible to have to witnesses that twice in one lifetime.”


	22. Chapter 22

The day the sun came out was also the day the prison gave him his first work detail.

 

He gritted his teeth throughout the whole ordeal, scrubbing on his hands and knees as an old inmate leant against his mop and lectured him about the proper methods of cleaning a bathroom floor. When he finally finished the job he threw the cleaning supplies back into storage, dragged the old man to his usual seat behind a checkers board, and moved towards the cellblock door.

 

An inmate stepped into his path.

 

Bruce stopped. Fixed him with an icy look. “Get out of my way.”

 

The man drew a sharpened shard of metal from his pocket. “Remember me, Batman? I…”

 

He knocked the weapon out of his hand, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him off the ground.

 

“I said, get out of my way.”

 

The inmate made a small squeaking sound. Bruce didn’t wait to see if they manifested into words. He shoved the man aside hard enough to send him sprawling across the floor and moved forward to push through the outside door.

 

Another inmate stepped into his path.

 

“Hey, Mr Batman, I…”

 

He didn’t give a warning this time. The man scurried out of his path as he continued forward undeterred.

 

Then… finally… he was outside.

 

Bruce found a small corner of space away from the rest of the inmates, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and quickly pulled the rumbled sheets of paper out of his pockets. His hand shook as smoothed it out and held it facing up toward the sky in front of him.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He hesitated, tugged at the corners of the blank page to smooth it out further, and glanced up at the sky. Blue turned piebald with frothy white clouds. The sun a blinding patch of light sitting directly overhead.

 

Still nothing happened.

 

A weight began to settle in his stomach.

 

Did he really think Clark wanted to spend his days hanging overhead a prison burning secret messages onto a piece of paper? Did he really th—

 

A line of words appeared on the page.

 

_Aren’t you going to say anything?_

 

“Clark,” Bruce breathed. He was here. He was really here. Bruce could barely find his voice or hold back his smile. “I… hello.”

 

He could almost hear the amusement in Clark’s voice as he responded. _Hello._

 

“Is this…” God. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t thought at all what he would say to Clark if this plan worked… only that he would be able to talk to him. “Is this okay?” He whispered toward the paper. “I mean… writing with heat vision. It’s not… uncomfortable?” What the fuck was he saying?

 

_I’ll survive._

 

“I… _fuck_ ,” his voice was little more than a rasp. Nothing that would be audible to any passing inmates. Even so, he felt the threat of their eyes on him. Watching, always watching, and waiting for any sign of weakness. He couldn’t get distracted or emotional. Even now. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

 

 _You’re my best friend._ Clark wrote. _Where else would I be?_

 

“Work?” He suggested drily. “Metropolis? Watching TV instead of hanging out in Gotham smog?”

 

 _TV?_ Again, he could hear Clark’s light joking tone as clearly as if he were right in front of him. _Who needs Netflix when I’ve got my own private showing of Orange is the New Black right here?_

 

“I never watched that show.”

 

_Yes, because you’re Batman. You know everything about everything except popular culture. That’s why you recruit brightly dressed children. They can deal with all these newfangled things like 'Netflix' and ‘Star Wars’ for you._

 

“Ha ha.” He paused. Sucked in a deep breath. “Speaking about the boys…”

 

Clark started writing without anymore prompting. I _spoke to Alfred. He said either he or Dick will visit you next week._

 

Dick. For a moment the idea of seeing his eldest son blocked out all else. He smiled, read that sentence again… and then stopped smiling and read it again. “Either? Why not both? I can have up to five visitors at a time.”

 

Clark didn’t write anything.

 

Bruce’s fingers curled in the paper. “What’s going on? Where’s Alfred?”

 

_Alfred wants someone to keep an eye on Damian._

 

“Why? He’s thirteen. He can watch himself unless…” A frightening thought. “He’s still sick? How sick is he? What is it? Has Alfred taken him to the doctor? How serious is it?”

 

 _He’s fine,_ Clark wrote. _Please. Don’t worry._

 

“He’s my _son_ ,” Bruce hissed. “I have a right to know what’s going on. If he’s sick I—”

 

_He’s not sick._

 

Bruce read that. Read it again.

_He’s just a little upset right now._ Clark didn’t elaborate further.

 

Bruce stood, his head full of mixed and warring emotions. It had been a month and a half since he was arrested. A month and a half since he last saw Damian. Last spoken to him. Longer since he'd last told him he loved him. What would happen if Damian never forgave him for this? Would he ever get that opportunity again? 

 

After a while words started appearing thick and fast across the page. _Dick has been pinned down in Bludhaven for the last month by all the press. Everything’s finally starting to cool off and so he’s taking a train ride back. I can see him now. He’s wearing a big green coat, a baseball cap, and is dozing against the train window. He needs a haircut but, otherwise, looks good._

 

Bruce knew that coat.

 

“Did he remember his toothbrush?” Dick always forgot his toothbrush when he came to stay at the manor for a few days.

 

It took a little longer for Clark to answer this time. When he did it was with a _No_.

 

Bruce sighed. Some things never change. It was comforting to think Dick was one of those… even if Damian might not be.

 

“Damian,” he said. “You’ll keep an eye on him for me won’t you?”

 

Clark didn’t answer.

 

“He’s always needed just a little more help than the others. I… I know I failed him but…” Bruce stopped. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to end that sentence. Finally he sighed and bowed his head. “Please just… I can’t be there for him right now. Can you…?”

 

_I’ll look out for him._

 

He heaved a sigh. “Thank you, Clark. I… thank you.”


	23. Chapter 23

Things changed after that.

 

Clark wouldn’t say it was better. It wasn’t. Bruce was still in prison. He was still out of it. Damian was still struggling and, Clark admitted, he was too. But it was easier. There was a level of acceptance now. Of routine.

 

Every morning Bruce would spend a couple of hours cleaning, train with Ricky, maybe confront an inmate or two... and, around the same time every day, he would walk outside with a piece of paper in his hands. It never lasted long. He could only stand unnoticed with the paper for so long. It didn’t matter. Those few minutes of the day were Clark’s favourite.

 

The rest of the time he either spent as Superman or upholding his promise to Bruce. But keeping an eye on Damian entailed more than just observing him from the clouds. Damian, like his father, was secretive and despite his refusal to eat with the family – or sometimes at all – most of his behaviours seemed to be fairly normal for a thirteen year old boy. He studied, trained, drew pictures, and played games.

 

It was Alfred who was showing greater and greater signs of stress. It was also Alfred who looked after Damian.

 

Clark decided the best way to help out was to help Alfred. He started doing odd easy little chores around the manor, picked up the groceries, and cleaned the rooms which Alfred hadn’t had time to do lately. If nothing else it gave the man more time to deal with the stack of paperwork sitting beside his computer, Damian’s tutors, and the general admin that came with running a home.

 

It also meant Alfred could spend some time to himself.

 

Clark wasn’t sure if it helped. Alfred, like the rest of the family, was a private person. He didn’t quickly outwardly express his feelings towards Clark’s new presence in their lives and his thanks remained stiff and formal. But he didn’t dismiss him either.

 

When Dick finally arrived after a long detour through Barbara’s apartment he greeted him with his customary grin but didn’t act as if Clark’s frequent visits were strange. Perhaps they weren’t. Before Bruce turned himself in he would visit the manor once every couple of days. Perhaps Dick believed he’d just continued that trend.

 

Whatever the case, Clark was glad Dick was there. He was talkative, friendly, and a healthy dose of something-other-than-Bruce-being-in-prison. In short, exactly what both he and the household needed. More importantly, he was exactly what Damian needed.

 

Or, at least, that was what Clark had thought… But he was wrong. Horribly disastrously wrong. And he couldn't hide from it because the day Dick came home was also the day Damian ran away.


	24. Chapter 24

Bruce walked slowly back to his cell.

 

His whole body felt brittle and tight like a coiled spring. The wretched feeling in his stomach a black hole sucking him in and yet somehow holding him together.

 

They hadn’t come. Clark promised him they would… but they hadn’t. Neither Alfred nor Dick. Why? Did something happen? Was something wrong? Or had Clark just lied to try and comfort him? Had they decided life was better – easier – without him in it?

 

He shoved that thought aside and pushed through his cell door. It didn’t open all the way. Blocked by something big but soft.

 

Bruce slipped in through the gap and blinked at the stacks of cardboard boxes filling the tiny room. Ricky sat in the middle of it surrounded by cards, letters, and magazines. As Bruce watched he pulled a new envelope from one of cardboard boxes and ripped it open.

 

“Ricky?”

 

“Yo, Batman.”

 

“What are you…?”

 

“Another girlfriend. Aw  _Daammn_ _!_ This one sent a photo.” He held up a picture of a woman in bra and underwear. It was the closest thing to pornography the administration allowed in the prison. The significance of that hadn’t been lost on Ricky. “You know how many noodle packs we can get for this? You have to write her back.”

 

“My mail,” Bruce realised what he was looking at. Watched as Ricky slipped the photo into his pocket. “You’re opening it?”

 

The boy squared his shoulders. “You’re gonna stop me?”

 

He clenched his hands into fists. Forced his voice to stay low and level. “I liked it better when you were scared of me.”

 

“I wasn’t never scared of you.”

 

Bruce looked at him.

 

“I wasn’t. I just...” he looked down. “These boxes were on my bed anyway. The way I figure, they’re mine.”

 

Bruce reached into one cardboard box and pulled open a random envelope. The guards had already opened it and he could see what looked like a pamphlet folded up inside. He looked at the back. The address there wasn’t Wayne Manor. He dropped it, pulled out another. And another. And another.

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

“Nothing,” Bruce clenched his hand, crushing a letter in his hand. “ _Nothing_.”

 

“Umm… Batman? Are you…?”

 

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

 

“Eh… okay.”

 

Ricky watched out of the corner of his eye as Bruce reached into his mattress and tore out a clean sheet of paper.

 

He left without a word.

 

The yard was busy. It didn’t matter. He shouldered through throngs of inmates, snarling at those that dared to challenge him, itching for a fight almost as much as he itched for answers. No one rose to the challenge.

 

He found a semi isolated place and wrenched the paper from his pocket.

 

“Where the fuck were they, Clark?”

 

No answer.

 

“You promised me Dick or Alfred would come for visitation this week. You promised!”

 

Still nothing.

 

“What’s going on? I have a right to know. They’re my family. They might hate me but they’re still my goddamned family. You said they would come. You said…” he trailed off. No words were appearing on his page. The sight sent a surge of what could have been panic through him. “Clark? Are you there?”

 

Nothing.

 

“No. Clark. Please. I’m sorry. I…” He was gone. Just like Damian, Alfred, and Dick.

 

The rational part of his brain told him a thousand things could have happened. Perhaps Clark was catching a falling plane or fighting off alien invaders. Perhaps the same event had stopped Dick and Alfred from seeing him.

 

But the rational part of him felt small and crowded in his skull. Crushed by the days of confinement and paranoia in a place where every emotion he ever hard felt like it was being magnified tenfold. Boredom, isolation, anger, loneliness… fear.

 

What if Clark never came back? What about Alfred? Dick? He had fifteen years. He had barely done five weeks. How could he get through this without them? Why did this have to happen? Why did he have to kill that man?

 

He saw it again in his mind’s eye... felt it again…

 

Perhaps that what happened. Perhaps Clark had somehow finally realised the magnitude of what he did. Of what it meant. Perhaps he saw him as Bruce had seen himself when Gordon put the handcuffs on him. If he could, at that moment, he would have walked away from himself in disgust. Could he really blame his family – could he really blame Clark – for doing what he would have done? What he wished he could do?

 

“I’m so sorry. I… I just… I couldn’t stop. I… please I…”

 

“Mr Batman?”

 

Bruce turned.

 

Another inmate stood nearby. Young. Badly tattooed. Buzzed blonde hair.

 

“Eh…” he scratched the back of his neck, “sorry to disturb you but… um…” He looked up and down and up again. “Ricky said you taught him how to hit?” 


	25. Chapter 25

It took almost twenty hours to find him. In that time all Clark could think was how much he had let Bruce down, how much he had let the family down, and how on earth he was going to fix it. He couldn’t was the short answer. He knew that. Damian was upset and there was no magical spell or special potion that could change that. The only thing that would make this better was time… and perhaps the right words. Clark wasn’t sure he had either. But still he had to try…

 

When he finally found the boy he was on the edge of a rooftop in full Robin regalia. Hood up and sword drawn. It didn’t take the world’s greatest detective to know what he’d been doing. There was blood on his fists, bruises on his cheek.

 

“Hey,” Clark settled down onto the ledge beside him. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”

 

The boy didn’t look up. “What do you need, Superman?”

 

“Are…” Clark hesitated. Decided to press on. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m protecting my city.”

 

Clark looked around. They were on the edge of a not insignificant building on the northern edge of the city. To his left he could see the Gotham suburbs. To his right the Gotham River. In front of them loomed the ever lit walls of Blackgate Penitentiary.

 

“He’s in that one,” Clark pointed. “Far right hand side of Cellblock D.”

 

“I don’t care,” Damian spat.

 

He dropped his hand. “Okay.”

 

A pause.

 

A pause that stretched into a moment…

 

…and then a prolonged silence.

 

“You care,” Damian said stiffly. “Why? He left you as much as he left us.”

 

“It’s different.”

 

“Why?” Damian looked at him. His mask scowling as much as he was under it. “Don’t you love him?”

 

Clark sucked in a sharp breath. “I… eh… it’s… it’s still different. We’re friends and…”

 

“I’m not ten anymore. I know what you two are.”

 

“I… I’m not sure you do.”

 

Damian threw down his sword. “Stop it! I’m not a child! I know! Okay! I know! You don’t have to pretend you’re just friends to keep me safe. I don’t care that you’re ga—”

 

“Wha. Okay.” Clark held up his hands. “No Damian, you got it wrong. Bruce and I are close but we’re not…”

 

“No what?” The boy glared at him. “You’re telling me you’re straight?”

 

Clark had not expected the conversation to go this way. “I… eh… well…”

 

“I know what you and father were,” Damian hissed. “Which means he left you, just like he left me. But you’ve forgiven him. Why?”

 

“I… I never…”

 

“ _How_ then. Tell me how if you won’t tell me why. How can you just… _accept_ this?!”

 

Miserably. “I didn’t really have much say in the matter.”

 

“Exactly,” Damian hissed. “He didn’t even _try_ to contact any of us.”

 

“I… well…”

 

“He doesn’t care. So I don’t care. And you shouldn’t care.” A look. “But you do.”

 

“I do,” Clark said.

 

Damian studied him. Then… “What’s he doing? Right now?”

 

Clark looked up at the prison. “Sleeping.”

 

The boy didn’t move… as if waiting for more information.

 

“Um… eh… his bed is on the right hand side of the room, he has a lot of new stuff… I think his mail finally arrived.”

 

“What does he do during the day?”

 

“Exercise mostly.”

 

“What exercises? Does he do them alone? Do they have equipment there?”

 

Clark looked at him. “I thought you didn’t care.”

 

Damian looked away. “I don’t.”

 

They stood there for a long time. Clark couldn’t guess how long. Their silent observation of the prison ended when Damian turned and picked up his sword. “I am tired. You can take me back to the manor now.”

 

Clark didn’t ask questions. He scooped the boy up and carried him home. Alfred called off the search when they flew into the cave and within twenty minutes both Dick and Barbara were back and changing out of their costumes. Dick seemed painfully aware that somehow something he had said or done triggered Damian to run away and gave him almost too much distance. Alfred didn’t hesitate to scold the boy and fuss over his scrapes and bruises.

 

Barbara just sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “You got to show me where your safe house is, kid. We were looking for you all day.”

 

Those words echoed in Clark’s head. He wasn’t sure why. It didn’t occur to him until he was lying in bed and staring up at the stars through his ceiling what they meant. _We were looking for you all day_. They had. All of them. Even Alfred in his own way.

 

They’d all been looking and no one remembered… today was Bruce’s visitation.


	26. Chapter 26

“Sit,” Bruce gestured at his bed.

 

“Whatever you say, Mr Batman.” The new boy sat on the edge of the mattress and looked curiously at the box of envelopes beside him. Whistled. “Nice haul. Pays to be a superhero, huh? Who’d da thunk?”

 

“Hey,” Ricky stood up. “King. What you doing here?” At Bruce. “What’s he doing here?”

 

“So you do know him?”

 

“Sure. We wash dishes together for work detail. What’s going on?”

 

Bruce looked at the new boy. “King is it?”

 

“Eh. Yeah.” He wrung his hands. “Short for Kingsley. Like the chicken. Weird name, I know. My parents were French so…”

 

Bruce crossed his arms across his chest. “Why should I train you?”

 

King’s eyes flicked between Bruce and Ricky. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr Batman sir but I don’t do no favours. I don’t find smack. I don’t suck dick. I don’t do none of that. I just wanna know how to hit good.”

 

Bruce studied him. Titled his head. “Show me your arm.”

 

King rolled up his sleeve showing off the mangled homemade tattoos crisscrossing up his bicep. “You like?”

 

“No.” He pointed at one mark sitting in the middle of it. “Why should I train someone with that on them?”

 

King looked confused. “What?”

 

Softly. “The swastika.”

 

“Oh,” the boy frowned. “Yeah… about that…”

 

Bruce turned to Ricky. “You’re black. Why would you talk to someone with that on them?”

 

Ricky looked – for lack of a better word – bamboozled. “Huh? What is it?”

 

Bruce frowned. “You don’t know what a swastika is?”

 

“Um… like… I see a few guys around here with it. Figured it was just a pretty shape.”

 

Bruce looked at Ricky and back to King who was looking at the poorly inked mark. It could have been done by an amateur… maybe even the boy himself.

 

“Hey man,” King pulled down his sleeve. “I know it looks bad. And, I’m gonna be straight with y’all, I got worse ones on my back and stuff.”

 

Sceptically. “Worse than a swastika?”

 

“Swa… _swash-eee-ta_?” Ricky tried to say it.

 

King ran his tongue along his teeth. “Yeah I got some other Aryan skinhead shit and… okay. I’m just gonna say it. I got a joker card too.”

 

“If you’re trying to persuade me into training you… you’re not doing a very good job.”

 

King sucked at his teeth and rubbed at his neck. Twitchy. Uncontrolled. “Kay. Yeah. I figured you’d say something like that. Look if the answer is no just say ‘no’. I can take it Batman, sir. I won’t get upset or nothing.” His eyes met Bruce’s and Bruce could see none of the fear that Ricky had when he first started training with him. He wasn’t being victimised. He wasn’t likely to be killed if Bruce didn’t teach him how to hit. But there was something else there… a broken sort of desperation…

 

Bruce. “What’s your crime?”

 

“Originally? Petty theft.”

 

“Originally?”

 

“Yeah. I stabbed a guy couple of years back. Got extra time.”

 

Softly. “You stabbed a guy?”

 

“Yeah. He didn’t die but…”

 

“But you tried to kill him,” Bruce finished for him.

 

King licked his lips. “Yeah.”

 

“Do you know who I am?”

 

“You’re Batman.”

 

“Yes,” Bruce hissed. “I’m _Batman_. I am a vigilante. I stop crime.”

 

“Not anymore you don’t.”

 

Bruce’s hand curled into a fist. “Why do you think I would train someone like you?”

 

“You train Ricky.”

 

“Ricky’s a nonviolent offender.”

 

“Hey,” King held out his hands. “I know it looks bad but… okay… um… I’m just gonna tell you. I’ve been in the system since I was thirteen, ‘kay. Juvy ain’t as bad as this but, you know, it ain’t as pretty as everyone pretends either. I was a pretty boy when they locked me up. Like… long hair and everything.”

 

“Aw fuck,” Ricky rubbed his face. “Fuck.” He could see where this was going as well as Bruce.

 

King carried on. “And there was these seventeen year olds. We called ‘em under-grads because everyone knew they were going to big boy prison once they turned eighteen. They knew it too. That made them real nasty, you know. Like… they knew they were gonna be the pretty little boys pretty soon so they made sure to get their fill of being the big bads while it lasted.” King’s lips thinned. “There was one. We all called him Yak. He was big. Never showered. If I’d have kept letting them fuck me then I’d be out by now. I would have got out before I turned fourteen. But I didn’t see that then. I just saw his fucking ugly face and his fucking ugly prick. So I stabbed him. Now he's even uglier and I got to stay inside until I’m twenty four.”

 

Bruce stared.

 

Ricky kept running at his face as if hoping to rub away what he’d just heard.

 

“Funny, huh?” King leant back. “Used to hate telling that story. Now I just tell it. Who cares? No one here, that’s for sure. The weirdest part of the whole thing was when I was seventeen I turned into an under-grad. I never touched no one though. Nope. Not me. But I was king of juvy. Heh. Get it? ‘Cause my name is King?” A crooked smile showing chipped teeth. “Then I graduated and, sure enough, I was a pretty boy again. I shacked up with the skinheads because they said they could take care of me. For a while they did… but then I starting being _their_ pretty boy. They would make me find coke or smack or shivs and if I couldn’t find it then I had to pay. I tried to kill one of them. I mean, it worked last time. But, you know, he was tougher than me. The guards found out though and split the whole gang up. We all went to different prisons. I came here… and straight away I showed everyone how crazy I am. I got weapons. I let 'em know I ain’t scared of getting nasty.” One long look at Bruce. “But, my baby sister told me the other day she’s having a baby of her own. It made me think. I spent my whole life in here. If they keep stacking up my years every time I fight then I’ll be in here till I die. That ain’t right. No sir. I just stole tires. That’s all I did.”

 

Bruce stiffened. “Tires?”

 

“Like… from cars. That’s what I was doing. I jacked tires and sold ‘em.”

 

Bruce stared. “You stole tires?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tires? From cars?”

 

“That’s what I said ain’t it?”

 

Ricky. “When you were thirteen?”

 

“Yeah. That’s what I mean, man. My sentence just keeps going up and up and up. I was only meant to be in for five months. I’ve been in for five years. Still got five more to go. I need to figure out a way to fight and scare people off without… you know… stabbing them and getting more time.” He looked between Bruce and Ricky. “I seen you guys fight. You don’t hurt no one. I mean, you hurt, but you don’t _harm_. No harm means no more time. That’s what I want to do and I… I figured I’d ask. But, you know, I ain’t joining anymore gangs. I’m doing this for me. I don’t suck anything and I don’t do favours. Got it?”

 

Bruce stared at him for a long time. Closed his eyes. Pinched his brow. Opened them again. Finally he spoke. “Meet me tomorrow in the main cellblock after lunch.”

 

King sat up, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Like… for real? You’ll help me? Fuck yeah, Mr Batman, I knew you weren’t as messed up as everyone’s been saying.”

 

Bruce grunted. Took one more look at his arms. “Wear long sleeves.”


	27. Chapter 27

Bruce had a new student.

 

And that meant he also had a new classroom.

 

There was barely enough room for Bruce and Ricky to train in the cell and that was before the boxes of mail arrived. The addition of a third member forced them to move practise out into the open. That meant the other inmates could see them even if they didn’t get close enough to learn the details of what Bruce was teaching. That, in turn, meant Bruce gave up any pretences of not being involved with Ricky and this new kid.

 

It was a risky move… But, clearly, Bruce had decided this boy was worth the risk.

 

If Clark was honest he couldn’t see why. New-kid was edgy and angry. He pushed back against any and all forms of authority, spoke a lot and with no filter, and was quick to fly off the handle if things didn’t go his way. It seemed Bruce was spending more of his time teaching him self-discipline rather than self-defence.

 

And it made Clark angry.

 

Damian was suffering and Bruce decided _now_ was the time to adopt a pet Neo-Nazi? Ricky he understood. Ricky was a victim. But this kid? He seemed more likely to attack than be attacked.

 

Clark knew he was being unfair. He didn’t know the kid and he didn’t know what Bruce had gone through when no one showed up for visitation… but after a day frantically searching for Damian he felt more emotionally fragile than he had in a long time. He needed to be able to talk to Bruce, to explain what happened, and to make things right again.

 

But Bruce didn’t give him that chance.

 

He didn’t come outside, instead using all of his free time to train the new boy.

 

Clark didn’t know what to think. Since discovering they could communicate with heat vision Bruce hadn’t once missed a chance to come outside. Was this because Clark hadn’t come yesterday? Clark knew he missed a day but he’d been looking for Damian. Aka, upholding his promise to Bruce. How could Bruce punish him for that? How could he even explain why he was absent if Bruce never came outside?

 

A day past. Then two. On day three Clark had had enough.

 

When Bruce left the cellblock to begin his long march to the cafeteria for the morning meal he focused on the small strip of exposed flesh at the back of Bruce’s neck. He used just enough heat vision to leave a faint red patch of irritated skin. A pinch.

 

Bruce flinched, touched the back of his neck, and stopped as he realised what had just happened.

 

“Keep walking, inmate!”

 

The man complied but not before glancing up at the clouds. Up towards Clark.

 

 _I’m here,_ that burn said. _Talk to me._

 

But, rather than hurrying up Bruce seemed to slow down. He ate his meal in bits and pieces, took his time scrubbing the bathroom floor, and even stopped to listen to the old man he shared his work detail with talk about how ‘these young kids in here got no respect’. By the time he finally went to his room, found a blank piece of paper, and made it outside Clark was even angrier.

 

He watched as Bruce made his way to a deserted part of the yard, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and pulled the paper from his pocket. He didn’t hold it out for Clark though. Instead he held it to his chest.

 

In a whisper. “Clark. Before you say anything I need you to understand something.”

 

Clark stared at that paper. Held in a way that meant he couldn’t burn a message onto it. Held in a way that silenced him.

 

“My family means everything to me. I know it might not seem like much to you but when you tell me that they’re coming for visitation and they’re not it fucking destroys me, okay. I know you were probably just trying to be nice but…”

 

“No,” Clark hissed to himself. “Stop. Let me explain.”

 

Bruce continued, unable to hear him. “…and then you didn’t come and I… I didn’t know if you were here and it hurts so much getting your hopes up and having them ripped down. I know you don’t know. I know it’s different for you, easier, but…”

 

Clark felt something inside him snap. Something small and thin. Something worn down by weeks of guilt and loneliness and stress.

 

“Stop!”

 

This time Bruce obeyed. He looked at him. Looked _right_ at him. “C-Clark…?”

 

“Damian ran away,” Clark said. “We were looking for him. That’s why none of us were there!”

 

“Clark you’re…”

 

“So don’t you _dare_ tell me this is easy for me. You’re away from your family but so am I. _You_ are my family, you selfish arsehole. You’re the only family I have. And I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you the other day. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so…” and just like that his anger was gone and his guilt and grief were back… raging through him with the force of a tsunami. He heaved through what felt like an ugly sob. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so so sor—”

 

“Clark,” Bruce said again, voice shallow. “ _Clark_.”

 

And that was the moment Clark realised Bruce was talking to him. Not to a piece of paper. Not to an empty cell. Not even up into the sky. To _him_. Because he was _there_.

 

He was right in front of Bruce.

 

Bruce was right in front of him.

 

He was fisting the front of Bruce’s orange uniform.

 

Bruce was gripping his wrists.

 

He’d flown down… without thinking he’d flown down into the prison yard…

 

Clark looked around. They were against the far wall half hidden behind a stack of bleachers. The closest guard was selling cigarettes to inmates and the second closest was deliberately looking away while his colleague worked. No one had spotted him… yet.

 

“You have to go, Clark. You have to go _now_.” Despite Bruce’s words the man was gripping his wrists. Gripping him as hard as he could.

 

“Bruce…”

 

“ _Now_ , Clark! You can’t…”

 

Clark pulled him closer and kissed him. Hard and open.

 

Bruce sucked in a shallow breath of air… and then he was kissing him back.

 

It was their first kiss and it was nothing like he’d always imagined it. It was better. It was worse. It was harder. It was hungrier. It was desperate. It was longing. It was _more_. More than anything he could have ever dreamed it would be… and it was over in a split second.

 

Clark flew back up into the sky, head and heart spinning.

 

What had he done? What had _they_ done? What… what were they going to do now?


	28. Chapter 28

It was raining.

 

Bruce didn’t know whether to be frustrated or thankful. He wanted to talk to Clark. He _needed_ to talk to Clark if for no other reason than to learn what happened with Damian. But the thought of facing the man again, even with a wall of cloud between them, had his stomach in knots.

 

Clark. Clark Kent. Superman. His friend. His best friend… and now the man with whom he’d shared the single most earthshattering kiss of his life with. Earthshattering not because there was any skill or elegance exhibited in its execution but because it was Clark… and after weeks of hostility, isolation, and whispering at walls he had been _there_. His voice, his gaze, his lips…

 

Years. They’d had _years_ to do this. Why did this have to happen now?

 

He should tell Clark to leave him alone. To let him go. That’s what he should have been saying since the start. But letting go of Clark would be like letting go of the only thing keeping him afloat. Even if it was floating towards a storm…

 

“You’re making a mistake.”

 

Bruce looked up.

 

The old man stood nearby and mopped a small spot of floor with shaking hands. He’d been Bruce’s work detail partner since the start and never had anything more than criticism for Bruce’s cleaning skills. According to the old man Bruce either used too much water, or too little, he always used the wrong sponge despite the fact all the sponges were identical, and somehow didn’t know how to hold a mop.

 

He rubbed his brow and wearily wondered what he was doing wrong today. “What?”

 

No answer.

 

Louder. “What is it?”

 

“Everyone can see what you do when you’re outside.”

 

A lump rose in Bruce’s throat. Had someone seen Clark kiss him? Him kiss Clark? What did that mean? Would the inmates think him weaker knowing he was attracted to men? Would they think Superman was smuggling him information or tools? Would they tell the press or the guards?

 

“Before you were just a man with a boy,” the old man went on, a hint of what could have been a southern accent creeping into his voice. “That ain’t all that strange around here. Now you’re a man with a gang. That ain’t all that strange either but it sure changes things.”

 

Ricky and King. He was talking about training Ricky and King. Bruce let out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding and rubbed his brow. “We’re not a gang.”

 

“The pigs won’t see it like that. The kids with shivs in here won’t see it like that either.” The man kept mopping his patch of floor. “They want you dead.”

 

“They’ve always wanted me dead.”

 

“Yes but that want died down a little bit when you didn’t squeal. Now it’s coming back.”

 

Angry. “King came to me. What was I supposed to do?”

 

“The only right and proper thing you could have done: tell him to fuck off.”

 

“He needed help.”

 

“Did he?” The man looked at Bruce. “Or did you need to help?”  


It was a more introspective and thought out statement than he thought the old man was capable of.

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

The old man snorted. “Why not?”

 

“I’m Batman.”

 

“Yes. The Bat-Man,” he coughed out a laugh. “That’s what’s got them all so upset. Can’t say I understand it. But then, I’ve been in here for a long time. There weren’t any Bat-Man when I got locked up.” He looked at Bruce. “Don’t suppose they will be a Bat-Man when I get out either.”

 

Bruce stared at him. He’d been Batman for twenty four years. If this man had been in here for that long…

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Eh?”  


“Your crime. What did you do?”

 

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “Bad luck bringing up old ghosts. Doesn’t matter what we did to get here. What matters is what we do once we’re here. That’s what the pigs always say.”

 

“Are you a murderer?”

 

Sharply. “Are you?”

 

“Yes,” Bruce said. “I am a murderer.” It was the first time he’d ever said those words out loud.

 

“I’m not,” the old man looked at the floor. “Not anymore.”

 

Bruce gritted his teeth. “You can’t just wash your hands of murder.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

He glared at him.

 

“I read the papers. You turned yourself in. Why would you do that if you weren’t looking for redemption?”

 

“ _Justice_ ,” Bruce hissed. “I was looking for _justice_.”

 

“Did you find it?”  


Bruce turned back to the floor and continued scrubbing without a word.

 

When they finished Bruce wheeled the cleaning cart back into the storage closest, waited while the guard patted him down, and left the man to find his own way back to his checkerboard.

 

He found Ricky and King doing pull ups on the underside of the stairs. He paused and watched them from a while. King had disregarded Bruce’s rule about long sleeves and was naked from the chest up, ID badge clipped onto his pants pocket. He had all the tattoos he’s promised at more. Ricky was also shirtless but had nothing to display apart from the drastically different colour of his skin. Despite the mismatch they were joking, laughing, and spotting for each other.

 

Could the other inmates really see them as a gang? They were kids. Ricky nineteen. King eighteen. Ricky didn’t know the world he had stepped into it King didn’t know anything outside it.

 

Bruce approached.

 

“Hey Batman.”

 

“Mr Batman I…”

 

“Shirt.”

 

“Aw. Fuck. Seriously, man? We’re working out!”

 

Bruce sent him a look.

 

King made a face but scooped up his jacket and wrestled it on.

 

“Are we doing stuff today?” Ricky asked. “Like… training and stuff?”

 

Bruce glanced across the room at the old man who had only just made his way back to his checkerboard. He peered at Bruce with blatant disapproval.

 

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “Let’s go.”


	29. Chapter 29

Clark wasn’t the world’s greatest detective – not close – but it didn’t take a Sherlock to figure out something Dick had said or done had triggered Damian into running away. While the rain poured Clark focused his efforts on finding out what that was and tried to forget about Bruce, him, and the kiss they’d shared in the prison yard.

 

The shortest, messiest, and most beautiful kiss of his entire life.

 

“Why don’t you write your dad a letter?” Clark asked, voice a shallow rasp.

 

Damian’s lips thinned. He sat as his drawing desk, sketchbook open in front of him. “Why doesn’t he write me a letter?”

 

“He’s tried. Believe me, he has. I… I don’t think he knows what to write.”

 

“Because he doesn’t know how to spell ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I’m a moron’ or ‘I’m escaping tomorrow night.’” Damian’s pencil scrubbed at the page hard enough it was a miracle he didn’t rip through it. “Perhaps I don’t know what to write either. Has anyone considered that?”

 

“I could help you,” Clark offered.

 

“No,” the boy snapped. “You couldn’t.”

 

They lapsed back into silence. The only sound the rasp of Damian’s pencil across the paper. With the amount of shading he was putting onto this drawing Clark was semi convinced it would end up being a portrait of a black hole.

 

“Dick said something to you,” Clark said softly, deciding to cut to the chase. “Or he did something. Something that made you run away.”

 

“It wasn’t him.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I just needed to hit something,” Damian said. “I just needed to be Robin for a bit.” A pause. “Alfred still hasn’t let me go to school, no one texts me anymore, and my maths tutor smells of cigarettes. Cheap ones.”

 

“Maybe I could talk to Alfred about that?”

 

“Mr Burke’s smoking problem?”

 

“Letting you go to school again,” Clark clarified. “I think it’s probably time.”

 

Damian frowned. “That’s what Dick thinks too.”

 

Clark studied him and tried to keep his voice light and friendly. “What does Dick think?”

 

“That it’s time,” Damian said. “Time to move on. Time to make plans. Time to start thinking about LAB, ‘life after Bruce.’” A pause. “He wants to be Batman.”

 

“That’s okay, isn’t it? He was Batman before.” Softly. “Didn’t you once say you preferred it when Dick was Batman?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Well…”

 

“That was a long time ago.”

 

“It was three years ago,” Clark remembered. “Three years isn’t that long.”

 

“Five times three is fifteen,” Damian said. “Is fifteen years a long time?”

 

Clark didn’t know what to say to that.

 

“I don’t want Dick to be Batman,” the boy went on. “And I don’t want to write my father a letter.” Softly. “And before you ask, I’m not visiting him either.”

 

“Why? I know you’re angry but he loves you.”

 

“If he loved me he would call. There are phones in prison.”

 

“It’s not that simple. He would if he…” He trailed off. “Wait. You don’t want to visit or write a letter but you would accept a phone call?”

 

Damian didn’t move for a long time. Finally he bobbed his head.

 

“Why? What’s different about a phone call?”

 

No answer.

 

Clark didn’t need one. He wasn’t the world’s greatest detective. He wasn’t close. But Damian had given him more than enough clues. Life after Bruce. That was what Dick had said. That was what had made him runaway. And that was also, in part, why he was refusing to visit him or write him letters. Clark could guess that those were two activities Damian wasn’t used to doing when it came to interacting with this father. He wouldn’t be able to ignore the fact Bruce was in prison if he had to write a letter or see the man decked out in his orange uniform. But talking on the phone…

 

Blackgate was not a well-run hellhole. Clark had no idea how long it would be before Bruce got phone privileges. Judging by the fact that there weren’t actually any phones installed into cellblock D he guessed it would be a long time. But, if that was what it took to reconnect Damian and Bruce that’s what needed to happen.

 

“Okay,” Clark stood feeling strangely reinvigorated. “Okay good. I…”

 

“No,” the boy said. “Not good. It’s bad.” With a savage jerk of his wrist tore the page he’d been working on in his sketchbook out, rumbled it up and threw it onto the floor. Began afresh on a new page. “Nothing’s good right now.”

 


	30. Chapter 30

It was time.

 

After a day of waiting. After a day of wanting.

 

After a day of dreading…

 

He had to tell Clark that whatever they were doing, whatever the kiss meant, they couldn’t do it. Not now. No matter how god it felt, no matter how right. No matter how _fucking impossible_ the idea of life in here without Clark felt, and how free he’d felt when the man had reached for him and he’d reached for Clark… he had to say no.

 

No to whatever the kiss had meant.

 

And, if that meant no to Clark’s presence in his life here then he had to say no to that too.

 

No matter how much that destroyed him inside.

 

Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. It was crisp and blank. He dreaded to think about what might appear on it in the next ten minutes as he held it in front of himself so it caught what meagre sunlight spilled through the thick rain heavy clouds.

 

“Hey Clark.”

_Hey._

 

“I want…” he trailed off. Started again. “About what happened, I…”

 

 _Hold on,_ Clark wrote.

 

Bruce obeyed, quietly grateful from the reprieve.

 

 _I am sorry._ Clark began. _I know what I did was probably really unexpected_.

 

Bruce coughed out a strangled laugh. Unexpected. Yes. That was a word to describe it.

 

 _And very poorly timed,_ Clark went on _. I want you to know what I am doing now isn’t because of that or because I expect anything from you_.

 

“Clark, wait.”

 

_Hold out your hand._

 

Bruce frowned. “Why?”

 

_Now. While no one is looking._

“Clark. No. You can’t… Don’t fly down here again. I know what happened was…” he fished for a word. Found only the one Clark had already given him. “Unexpected… But I’m in prison and you’ve got a life to live. You can’t…”

 

 _No,_ Clark wrote. _Trust me. I’m not going to kiss you again. But this is important. Hold out your hand._

 

“Clark.”

 

_Please._

 

Slowly Bruce held out his hand, palm up.

 

Nothing happened.

 

“Clark I…”

 

Something landed in his hand. A rumbled piece of paper. He caught it, looked around frantically to see if anyone had seen, and stuffed it into his pocket.

 

“Dammit, Clark, you can’t do that. If someone saw…”

 

“Wayne!”

 

He looked up.

 

A guard was approaching, frowning at him and the paper in his hands. “What are you doing?”

 

“Reading a letter,” he said and quickly folded up the page he was using to communicate with Clark.

 

The guard peered up at him. Short, round faced, and thin lipped. The kind of man who never seemed to be able to wipe the look of being confused and annoyed about it off his face. “You’re loitering, inmate. Move along.”

 

Bruce stared at him. “What?”

 

“You got a hearing problem?” The guards sneered.

 

“No.”

 

“How do you address me, inmate?”

 

Through gritted teeth. “No sir.”

 

“And what do you do when I tell you to move along?”

 

He felt sick. He only had a few minutes every dry day to talk to Clark. Having it cut short even at the best of times was bad but now… a prickle of heat moved along the length of his shoulders. An invisible message. _It’s okay_.

 

He spun on his heel and walked stiffly back towards the cellblock.  

 

The sky was cloudy and the air was thick with the promise of rain. If it rained he may have to wait days before he got another chance to talk to Clark. _Days_. He didn’t know if he could do that. Waiting had been hard enough and with the issue of the kiss still unresolved…

 

He raked his fingers through his hair, swore, and made his way back towards his cell. He still had whatever letter or message Clark had given him. A part of him was angry. Clark could send anything he wanted in the mail. Granted, it took longer for Bruce to receive it, but it wouldn’t risk exposing their secret method of communication. Dropping paper from the stratosphere would.

 

He walked into his cell, slumped back onto his bed, and pulled the ball of paper Clark had dropped from his pocket.

 

He carefully unfurled it and paused when he found not a letter like he’d expected… but a drawing. Bruce smoothed out the sheet against his thigh and stared at what was unmistakably Blackgate Penitentiary, illustrated in hard angry black lines. At first he thought it must have been Clark’s work. The man had been hovering over the prison for weeks now. He must have done something to fill the time.

 

But then he looked closer.

 

The image showcased the building from a low angle, as if the artist were standing on the city rooftops not floating overhead. What’s more, on the corner of the page equations had been solved and rubbed out. He studied those numbers. The sums were quite simple, not something Clark would have to put to paper in order to figure out, and yet were complex enough to belong in a high schooler’s math book.

 

Bruce felt his stomach drop.

 

Homework. It was Damian’s homework.

 

This was Damian’s drawing.

 

And lying on top of the image, protected by the rumbled paper, was a small sleek device. He didn’t need to study it to know what it was.

 

Superman’s Justice League Communicator. More durable than other members and designed to blend in so he could wear it as Clark Kent.

 

Bruce felt his heart both surge with excitement and sink as he saw it. They had only ever developed one of these… and Clark had given it to him. The idiot. He needed that. _Superman_ needed that.

 

He picked it up and gently put it in place. Tapped it once to open the previous line. That was all he would be able to do. Superman’s communicator required super speed to use. He couldn’t move fast enough for it to register the double or triple tap required to contact anyone else.

 

One tap. One line.

 

Clark could have set this to call himself. Either his mobile or the fortress. It was what he expected it to do. He was wrong.

 

A weary voice sounded in his ear. _“Good morning, Superman. You’ve reached the batcave. How may I help you?”_

 

Bruce shook. “Alfred?”

 

A sharp intake of breath. _“Master Bruce?”_

 

“Yes,” he rasped. “ _Yes_. I…”

 

Another voice. Small. Uncertain. _“Father?”_

 

And that was the moment Bruce realised what Clark had given him. What he’d really given him… and how much he loved him for it.


	31. Chapter 31

Clark leant against the railing on one of Wayne Manor’s many upper balconies and gazed out into dusk. Beneath him sprawled the Versaillian gardens of Wayne Manor. Beneath them he could see the batcave. Damian and climbed into a narrow recess in the rock and was standing in a corner facing the wall. In his hands he held Batman’s communicator ripped out of the cowl.

 

He was talking to Bruce.

 

Halfway across Gotham Clark could see Bruce standing in the corner of his cell, leaning with his forehead against the wall, and talking back.

 

They were so alike. It wasn’t just the physical similarities or the near identical positions they had assumed for this private conversation; it was the shared unspoken but desperate love they had for each other. A father and a son. Both feeling abandoned. Both needing each other. Both happy to hear the other’s voice but unable to put that into words.

 

Clark wasn’t listening in. Not really. Not to the words. But he was witnessing it… and it was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he had seen or heard in what felt like a very long time.

 

“Excuse me, Mr Kent.”

 

Clark looked up. Alfred stood by the door connecting the balcony to the interior of the house. In the dim light of dusk his silver hair looked white and his eyes heavy with shadow. Despite it his uniform was, as always, immaculate. His posture ridged, face poised.

 

“I hope I am not disturbing you.”

 

“No,” Clark smiled. It was the easiest smile he’d produced in a long time. “Never. What do you need, Alfred?”

 

The butler came to stand beside him. “I just wanted to thank you.”

 

“You don’t need to do that.”

 

“I disagree. What you have done for this family it…” Alfred sucked in a deep breath. Let it out. “…there is no simple thank you which would be enough.”

 

“I don’t…”

 

“Will you stay here tonight?”

 

Clark looked up, surprised.

 

Alfred looked back, serious.

 

“Oh… I… No. You don’t have to. It’s late. I don’t want to make you set up a room.”

 

“That isn’t an issue. You can sleep in Master Bruce’s.”

 

Clark gawped. “No. No I couldn’t.”

 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, he’s not using it right now.”

 

“Yes but… but…”

 

“I will set aside a spare towel for you,” Alfred said in a tone which didn’t leave room for any argument.

 

Clark opened his mouth to protest. Closed it. “Thanks.”

 

For a while neither of them spoke, the silence interrupted only by the gentle murmur of Bruce and Damian’s conversation.

 

Then… “I thought his room would be packed up,” Clark admitted. “The mattress standing. Bed sheets over everything.”

 

“I considered doing that,” Alfred said.

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

“No. I didn’t.”

 

“Why?”

 

The man didn’t answer at first. His gaze directed over the gardens. Clark was just about to ask something else, convinced the man had decided to ignore his question, when he finally spoke. “Fifteen years is a long time, Mr Kent.”

 

Clark swallowed. He didn’t need to be reminded. “But doesn’t that mean… isn’t that more reason to pack it up?”

 

“I am afraid if I do that it will never be unpacked. Master Bruce has many skills. Putting a room to rights is not one of them.”

 

Clark turned to frown at him. “Why would he have to? He’s got you.”

 

Alfred looked at him. Long and steady.

 

Realisation struck like a blow to the gut. “You don’t think you’re going to be here when he gets out?”

 

“I am seventy two,” the butler said frankly. “I think it very likely I won’t be here by the time Bruce is released.”

 

Clark felt cold. The possibility of Alfred dying before Bruce was released had never occurred to him… and he felt morbidly unsure as to why. It was simple maths. A child could have figured it out. And yet, he also felt sure that it was something that hadn’t occurred to Bruce either. Alfred was a constant. In everything he did. In who he was. Bruce, like Clark, had never questioned Alfred’s persistent presence or thought about how it might change. But it would. Perhaps not now but fifteen years was a long time.

 

He’d mended the rift between Bruce and Damian. Or, at least, given them an opportunity to mend it themselves. Now, finding out that Alfred never expected to see Bruce free again, that success felt like smoke in the wind.

 

He should have known this would happen. No matter what he did there would be another problem, each one more unsolvable than the last. That was because he was dealing with symptoms. The problem wasn’t Damian’s previous refusal to talk to Bruce or Alfred’s mortality. The problem was Bruce in prison. How had this happened? Why had it happened? Why was such a brilliant beautiful man determined to do this to himself?

 

He did sleep in Bruce’s bed that night. It felt like an intrusion despite everything Alfred had done to make him feel welcome. The massive, memory foam mattress, and the silk pyjamas Alfred had left out for him – never worn with BW stitched into the shirt pocket – all strange little things that, contrary to their purpose, stopped him from getting comfortable enough to drift off to sleep.

 

He doubted he would have been able to get to sleep even if he had been in his own bed. Not after everything he’d done that day. Not after everything Alfred said, and all the thousands of things he didn’t say. Not now that he seemed to finally be setting aside his guilt and focusing on another question. _Why?_ The word kept coming back. Kept circling around his consciousness like a shark. _Why had Bruce done this? To himself? To his family?_

_Why had he sent himself to prison?_


	32. Chapter 32

“Wayne.”

 

Bruce looked up. Heart in his mouth.

 

“Table fourteen. Move.”

 

They were here. They’d come. He knew they would. Alfred had told him _someone_ would come today but after the last couple of weeks…

 

He rose, walked through the doorway, and stepped into the visitation room behind a line of other inmates. It was a large echoy place, bigger than the room he had spoken to Alfred in when he was in admitting, and there, on one of the far tables, was Dick.

 

He sat by himself, hands flat on the fold out plastic table, looking strangely unchanged.

 

He looked up as Bruce approached and then lurched to his feet.

 

“Bruce I…”

 

Bruce grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a bone crushing hug.

 

“Whoa.” Dick let out a breathless laugh and brought his own arms up to pat Bruce’s back. “You okay there, big guy?”

 

“Missed you,” was all he could manage. The words husky and raw.

 

“Missed you too,” Dick replied. “Really. You have no idea…”

 

“Break it up!” A guard called across the room. “Three second hugs.”

 

Dick pulled back with a startled look on his face. “Wait. Seriously? They time your hugs?”

 

Bruce let the man slop out of his arms and slowly eased himself down into the plastic chair opposite him. Dick mirrored his actions and rubbed at his mess of dark hair somehow messing it up even further. He studied him. “Man, orange is not your colour. Like seriously.”

 

“I don’t get much choice.”

 

“I know. Jesus, I…” Dick paused. Seemed to rethink what he was about to say. “So how is it? Prison?”

 

“Hard,” Bruce answered.

 

“Yeah. Though it’s got to be easier now with the…” Dick tapped his ear.

 

Bruce frowned. Didn’t say anything at all.

 

“Okay. Yep. I get you can’t say anything. I do. It has been pretty amazing though. I know you’re not always free to talk but Damian was… you have no idea how rough it was with Damian before…”

 

“How is Damian?” Bruce interrupted him.

 

Dick made a face. “Damian? Oh. Better now. Things were rough for a while. But you already knew that, right? That’s why I didn’t come last week.”

 

“He ran away.”

 

“Yeah. For a bit.”

 

“You found him.”

 

“Clark did. I just… I’ve just been trying to give him some room since. But it’s better. It’s coming right.” Dick nodded to himself. “Yeah. It’s getting better.”

 

Something about the way the acrobat said those words told Bruce he didn’t want to talk about it anymore… and with the clock ticking away in the corner Bruce didn’t prod him further. He only had half an hour of visitation and so he moved on.

 

“What about Alfred? How is he doing?”

 

Dick shrugged. “He seems alright which means jackshit. He’s the only person I know harder to read than you. And before you ask, Jason hasn’t talked to me. I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. And Tim’s…well… you probably already know this from his letters but he’s trying to prove your innocence.”

 

Bruce did know that. He told Dick what he’d told Tim. “I’m guilty.”

 

“I know,” Dick said. “Hell, _he_ knows. But he’s got to do through his phases, you know. It’s how he accepts. Like when Kon died. He needed to go through that denial phase. It hurt but… yeah. It’s what he does.”

 

Bruce nodded though he wasn’t sure he was in agreement. Tim was… complicated and he wasn’t sure things were so simple. He’d been finding Tim’s letters buried along with the rest of his mail. Or, more accurately, Ricky had been finding Tim’s letters along with other ‘legit’ mail as he went through the boxes in search for things he could trade. On the surface they read like a letter you would expect to see between father and son. Really, they were written in code. He hated to admit it had taken him hours to crack and even now wasn’t sure he was getting the full message.

 

The mental pressures of prison didn’t leave a lot of room to the kind of in depth puzzle solving that was required to keep up with Tim.

 

But, no matter what happened, he was confident Tim would cope. He had the foundation and the friends needed to get through this. It was and always had been Damian he worried about the most. But, perhaps, Bruce thought as he studied Dick, it wasn’t just Damian who had been pushed to the limits by this.

 

“And you?” Bruce asked. “How are things?”

 

“Things?” Dick let out a strangled laugh. “Oh. They’re peachy. Did you know Clark’s sleeping in your bedroom?”

 

That shocked Bruce.

 

“Yeah,” Dick read the look. “I’m not sure how I feel about that, if I’m honest. I mean, I love the guy and I get that you two are a thing now but…”

 

“A thing?”

 

“Yeah. A thing. An item. A…”

 

“Dick. No. I…”

 

“Look. I get you don’t want to talk about it because, I don’t know, you got to maintain your prison rep or something. And, honestly, I don’t really want to talk about it either because I feel like a fucking idiot whenever I think of it so let’s just move on.”

 

“Dick. Listen. I don’t know what Clark’s told you but…”

 

Quickly, almost sharply. “You saying there is nothing going on between you two?”

 

Bruce opened his mouth to deny it. Thought about the kiss on the prison yard. Closed it without saying a word.

 

“Yeah. Okay. Um…. Okay.” Dick sucked in a deep breath. Then another. “You know, Bruce, I um… I don’t care about that. It’s just… a bit of a shock. I know it shouldn’t be after all the years but I keep thinking about this time I called you a homophobe for not letting Wally sleep over which now seems so fucking stupid and along with everything else,” he shuffled uncomfortably on his seat.

 

Bruce tried one more time. “Clark and I weren’t…”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Dick said firmly. “It really doesn’t, especially with everything else that’s happened. I mean, you’re here. I think that pretty much takes the cake when it comes to weird shit going on right now. And, you know, about that, I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I think I had to work myself up to this a little, you know? Seeing you in orange is a bit… it’s a lot to take in. Especially because you _really_ are wearing orange. I thought it would be blue or brown or something. But nope. Orange. With numbers and everything. You look like you’re in a Halloween costume.”

 

Bruce bowed his head.

 

“Oh Jesus. No. I’m sorry. That sounded mean. Catty almost. Wow. I’m a prick. What I meant to say is…. It’s just strange. Seeing you here. Like this. I can get why Damian prefers…” he gestured at his ear again, “you know. It’s easier.”

 

Bruce couldn’t deny the truth in that. It was easier to talk to Dick, Damian, and even Alfred over the Justice League communicator. It was hard to find the space away from other inmates to do so but once he did the familiarity of the Justice League line made it almost normal. Almost like he was out on a mission and they debriefing from the cave.

 

He spoke to Damian every day. Alfred and Dick most days. Clark… not at all. Clark had given up his communicator in order to give Bruce a chance to talk to his family and that meant there was no way Clark could use it to talk to him unless he borrowed someone else’s communicator. To do so would change the configuration and make it tricker for Bruce to contact his family. He could only reopen the previous line not make new calls. But, even so, there was nothing stopping Clark using Batman’s communicator… and if he was staying at the manor there seemed even less reason to hold back.

 

But holding back he was, and the possible reasons for that had been circling in the back of Bruce’s brain for days. He wanted to talk to Clark. He wanted to hear his voice. He didn’t want to stand outside with paper anymore… but he was coming to suspect that might be what he would have to do.

 

Why? Was Clark angry at him? Was he trying to hide something from him?

 

Something like sleeping in his bed and telling his sons they were somehow, despite the literal walls between them, together?

 

Bruce frowned down at the table.

 

“You’re thinner,” Dick said.

 

He grunted. “The food tastes like shit.”

 

That spurred a short burst of laughter from the boy. “Yeah, well, compared to Alfred’s anything would. And how much does it cost to feed a prisoner now days?”

 

“More than what they spend. I’d be hungry without food from commissary. Many inmates are.” Absently. “King steals milk from the kitchen and Ricky trades anything he can find for noodles and soup.”

 

“Uh… What?”

 

Bruce looked up. Dick’s smile was gone.

 

“Who the fuck is Ricky?”

 

“He’s not you.”

 

“Yeah. I figured that one out by myself, Mr World’s Greatest Detective.”

 

“It’s not…”

 

“Not what? Fucking weird? How the fuck did you find someone with my name? Why would you do that? I… Jesus, Bruce, this is a high security prison. They’re not good guys. You can’t be friends with them.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

Dick stared at him in frank disbelief.

 

“They’re different,” Bruce said. “I’m looking out for them.”

 

“Oh good. You’re forming a prison gang. That’s comforting to hear.”  


“We’re not…” the words stuck in his throat. What the old man had said reared up in the back of his mind. He beat it back down. “We’re not a gang. That’s not what it’s about.”

 

“What’s it about then?”

 

Bruce’s hand clenched into a fist. “I’ve got fifteen years to get through, Dick. I can’t do this alone.”

 

“I’m here. I…”

 

“No, you’re not,” he snapped. “You’re not _here_. You don’t know what _here_ is.”

 

“Bruce. I’m sorry I…”

 

“ _Here_ I wear orange. _Here_ I have people I look out for. _Here_ is where I live now. And the only one of you on the outside who has been _here_ for me is Clark and he… he…” Bruce didn’t know. He didn’t know what Clark was doing or where he was. All he knew was he was furious at him. The feeling came on suddenly. Hot. Bitter.

 

He knew it was the prison. He knew the lack of external stimulation was heightening everything internal to a painful degree… but he still couldn’t stop himself from feeling it. Why wasn’t Clark talking to him? What was going on at the manor? What was happening between Clark and his family? Why was he a _fucking_ spectator in his own _fucking_ life?  He swallowed his reaction down and forced himself to relax into his seat.

 

He knew Dick didn’t buy it for a second. The man looked at him like he was a rat trap ready to snap shut.

 

“I… sorry. Forgive me. It’s been a hard couple of months.”

 

“Yeah,” Dick agreed. “Yeah it has.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I just wanted to apologise for not responding to many comments lately. I will get through them but it might take a little bit of time. I know I say this a lot, but my real life is a little full on right now and often I just don't have the energy to respond as each of you deserve. Your support has kept me going however so thank you all so much and I will respond to your comments when I can. Thanks!


	33. Chapter 33

Clark felt like he was being cut into pieces. His life fragmenting away into different sections none of which he had enough time or energy to properly respond to or take care of. He was due back at work soon, had been missing Justice League meetings, and was starting to become entrenched in the day to day life at Wayne Manor which involved, among other things, an ongoing quest to convince Alfred to let Damian go back to school. His first priority however, as it had been for over a month now, was Bruce.

 

But that part of his life was starting to fragment too. There was the time he spent watching Bruce, times he wondered what future, if any, they had together after their kiss... and now there was his investigation. What had happened that night? Why had he killed that man? Why was Bruce so determined to convict himself when he had a family that loved him and needed him as much as they did?

 

He knew the basics already. The basics had been printed in every newspaper, including his own.

 

The victim, a small time criminal in his early forties. The location, an apartment in South Gotham. The event, Batman had broken in and killed him using blunt force. There wasn’t much more information than that. But it was a start.

 

At least that’s what he thought.

 

It turned out the start might just be the end. There was no evidence to suggest anything else had happened that night, not with the police nor with the files in the batcave. Bruce had tracked down his victim, broken into his apartment, and killed him. They only extra detail he had been able to discern was that it wasn’t pre-emptive. Perhaps the man had fought back. Perhaps something there had made Bruce snap. He didn’t know what it was but Bruce left the cave that night with the intension of returning. He could see it in the video footage. He was comfortable. Relaxed. Just another night.

 

And yet less than three hours later he had turned himself into the police.

 

He had to talk to Bruce. That was the only way forward. He had to ask these questions if for no other reason than to understand why he was here and why Bruce was there… but he was terrified to. He didn’t have to be a genius to know Bruce didn’t want to talk about his crime, that night, or why he had turned himself in. If he had he would have talked about it to Ricky, Clark, or even King by now.

 

But he hadn’t.

 

He’d only ever said one word on the subject, and that word was ‘guilty’.

 

He needed to talk to him. He needed to. But he… couldn’t. Not just yet. He needed just a little more time. Just a little more time.


	34. Chapter 34

Time was a strange thing. He’d never really considered it before. Not until all he had was time. Time waiting for the next meal, the next work detail, the next contact from his family… or from Clark. Clark who told his family they were in a relationship. Clark who apparently wasn’t writing for the Daily Planet anymore if his lack of articles in Bruce’s stolen paper had anything to say on the matter. Clark who had kissed him, put him back in contact with his family, had kept him sane since he first spoke to him in solitary…

 

He loved him. He hated him. He wanted to punch him. He wanted to kiss him again.

 

But above all he wanted to _talk_ to him. But Clark wasn’t talking. Around the rain and the increasing suspicion of the guards he hadn’t been able to talk to him using their old method of communication and while his family called him using Superman’s communicator Clark so far had been quiet.

 

Bruce growled and stepped in to yank King’s arm back. “Like this.”

 

“I _did_ do it like that.”

 

“No. You hunched. Like you always do. It tells your opponent you’re about to attack.”

 

“Fuck off. I didn’t hunch.”

 

“Yes you did.”

 

“No I…!”

 

Bruce knocked him back with a quick blow to the sternum.

 

“Fuck,” King staggered back against the wall and coughed. “Shit. Fucking shit. I… how did you…?”

 

“Know you were about to attack me?” Bruce finished for him. “You hunched.”

 

Ricky burst out laughing as King rubbed his chest.

 

“He got you. He got you _good_.”

 

For a moment Bruce thought King would snap. It was his normal reaction to this situation… but instead he breathed. “Hey, man quit it. Mr Batman gets everyone. That’s why he’s Batman. Fuckin crazy, but he still gets ya.”

 

Bruce frowned.

 

King noticed. “Ah. Don’t worry. It’s good to be a wee bit crazy in here. People get scared of you. They stay back. ”

 

Ricky. “Hey, shut up man.”

 

Something about the way Ricky spoke sounded a warning signal in Bruce’s brain. This wasn’t just King being King. This wasn’t just talking shit. “You think I’m crazy?”

 

“Heh,” King rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah. Not really. Just… a little bit. But, you know, I don’t mind that. Like I said, Mr Batman, it’s good. And I know you aren’t the bad kinda crazy.”

 

“What kind of crazy am I?”

 

“Aw, you know.” He looked to Ricky for support. Ricky gave none. “I just… everyone says it…”

 

Bruce. “What do they say?”

 

“Like… you act weird sometimes. In the yard and stuff. And talk to yourself. But it’s cool, man. I figure it’s just you pretending anyway.”

 

The inmates were noticing. They were noticing him talking via the communicator. Noticing him in the yard with Clark.

 

He’d been so careful… No. That was a lie. He hadn’t been careful. He’d been desperate. If Damian rang when he was around other inmates he would walk away without a word. If the sun was out there was nothing in the world that would stop him going outside. He’d tried to hide it. He had. But careful? No.

 

Did it matter? He wasn’t sure. King had a point. If the other inmates were more likely to stay away from him because they thought he was insane that was a price he was more than willing to pay. On the other hand, it could be seen as a weakness…

 

“Um. Mr Batman?”

 

He was about to tell the boys to get back to training when a sound across the cellblock disturbed him. Yelling. Chanting. Whoops of delight. He turned.

 

Ricky. “What’s going on?”

 

King. “Heh. Fresh meat.”

 

Bruce looked at him. “Fresh meat?”

 

The boy grinned. “What? You sad you’re not the new kid no more?”

 

Bruce turned back. Watched three inmates walk in a stiff lines through the cellblock door, their belongings and bedding slung over their shoulders. The other inmates didn’t hassle the newcomers quite as much as they had Bruce but they didn’t let their entrance go unheeded either.

 

The first man was clearly used to it. A stocky middle aged thug who smiled as if the yelling inmates were welcoming him home. After him came a nervous look man with long bony legs, a weak chin, and a freshly shaved head. He looked like a pen pusher who still didn’t know how he’d ended up in orange. Behind him was a boy.

 

A boy who was looking right at Bruce.

 

There was something eerily familiar about him… Like a memory of a dream. Bruce scanned his face, trying to figure out what it was. Green eyes, black hair, skin dusky but not all the way to dark. There was something about the way he held his mouth…

 

“Why’s that last one staring at us?” King asked.

 

“Batman,” Ricky said and for a moment Bruce thought he was addressing him until he continued. “He knows who Batman is. That’s why he’s lookin’.”

 

King squinted at Ricky “How’s he supposed to know that?”

 

“Everyone knows that.”

 

“Not when they first come in they don’t. I didn’t know till everyone started saying stuff.”

 

“That’s ‘cause you’re an idiot.”

 

Bruce didn’t say anything as King shoved Ricky and Ricky shoved him back. He just watched as the boy was deposited in a cell right in the middle of lower floor. He memorised the cell number. Sixty Three.


	35. Chapter 35

Clark still wasn’t used to Bruce’s bed.

 

Most nights he avoided the issue. He flew home, slept on his own barely big enough thin foam mattress and tried not to read too much into the fact that it felt roughly a million times worse than Bruce’s bed… but also a million times more comfortable.

 

But some nights he couldn’t do that. Some nights he stayed too late helping Damian with his homework or organising things for Alfred or making polite small talk to Dick. Some nights Alfred had already put the heater on and laid out a towel for him. Some nights he knew he just needed to be there.

 

But, no matter how fickle his nights were, his days were consistent. He spent his time between The Fortress of Solitude where he was hopelessly picking at his stalled investigation, hovering over the prison wondering when he would get the courage to ask Bruce what he needed to ask him, and Wayne Manor. He was grateful for any work he could do around the house which would take him away from the other two locations… and that work was never in short supply.

 

Alfred had decided to organise the first Wayne Foundation charity function since Bruce’s imprisonment. While most of the details were taken care of by external staff Alfred still spent a lot of his time working to make the event a success. Clark picked up almost all the household chores and even – much to Damian’s disgust – cooked one night.

 

“What is this cheese? _What is it_?”

 

Clark had been stumped. “Um. Mozzarella. Is there something....?”

 

“Home brand,” Damian had hissed. “It’s _home brand_. It tastes like plastic.”

 

“I’m sorry. I can’t afford…”

 

At that word Alfred had jerked back as if an electric current had just run through him and stared at Clark.

 

The following morning when the boys were still asleep Alfred had, without any pomp and circumstance, given Clark the account number and password to Wayne Manor’s finances.

 

“In case you ever need to pay for anything.”

 

“I…”

 

“You will find you have been reimbursed everything we owe you.”

 

Clark hadn’t known what to say. He could see the sense in it he supposed. Even so, it felt like he was being given something that wasn’t his. Something he had no right to. That feeling magnified when he opened up the account later that day and saw the amount of zeros there. It wasn’t Bruce’s fortune. It wasn’t close. It was the money Bruce gave Alfred to maintain the house and cover living expenses. That didn’t stop it from being the fattest bank account Clark had ever seen.

 

The fact that Alfred said he could pay for _anything_ didn’t escape him either.

 

But that was nothing beside what happened four days later. Clark, trying to ignore his looming return to the Daily Planet, had spent the day helping Damian and Dick get ready for the Wayne Foundation function. Alfred had promised Damian could go back to school if he attended and Dick was going to make sure no one got stabbed.

 

The event was held at Old Wayne Tower which was a surprisingly public choice and was already surrounded by Batman fans and protesters when they arrived. A few were waving around photos of Dick, Damian, and Tim with robin masks painted on. Clark could tell that got Damian’s hackles up. If it bothered Dick he didn’t show it.

 

He sat in the car with Alfred and watched the boys walk shoulder to shoulder down the red carpet in matching suits. Damian had grown in the last week or so and was almost as tall as Dick.

 

“That’s the worst part,” he said to Alfred without even thinking. “Damian’s never going to get these years with his dad back. By the time Bruce get out...”

 

“He’ll be grown,” Alfred finished for him. “Yes. The thought had crossed my mind.”

 

“Sorry I…”

 

“There is a reason I organised this event tonight,” Alfred said. “I need your help.”

 

He blinked. “Anything. I can clean the…”

 

“This is not about cleaning,” the man said stiffly and gestured out the window at the mix of fans and protesters now pressed up against the bouncers trying to get at Dick and Damian as they walked into the party. “I don’t want to send Damian back to school with this still happening.”

 

“Wait,” Clark frowned. “You promised he could go back if he attended tonight. You can’t renege on that. Not now.”

 

“I’m not planning on it. But we have some work to do while they’re in there.” Alfred shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Open the glovebox.”

 

Clark obeyed.

 

And went very still.

 

“Alfred.”

 

“Mr Kent.”

 

“This is a batsuit.”

 

The butler looked at him, at the suit, and back through the windscreen. “Yes. Yes it is.”

 

And that’s when Clark realised. The charity event wasn’t just an excuse to get Damian out of the house and socialising again… it was an alibi… for both of them.

 

“The boys don’t know,” Clark said.

 

“No.”

 

“When they find out…”

 

“They’ll assume it was a copycat. I’ll make sure of that. They won’t blame you.”

 

“They’re the sons of the world’s greatest detective,” Clark said sceptically.

 

Alfred turned his head. “And I am the world’s leading expert at keeping secrets for and from that ‘greatest detective’. Trust me, Mr Kent. This needs to happen. I have arranged everything. The young masters won’t find out.”

 

Clark stared at the suit. Stared at the black bat symbol.

 

Just like the bank account. This was just like the bank account. He knew, objectively, that it made sense. If Batman became active again, even for just one night, it would knock down the ever rising crime rate and draw attention away from the family. As long as Damian and Dick had an air tight alibi.

 

That was the reason Alfred was using Old Wayne Tower and not the Manor. Old Wayne Tower was more public and, Clark was willing to bet, had CCTV surveillance.

 

But, just like the bank account, he felt like he was being something he didn’t deserve. Something that wasn’t his. But this was worse than the money… so much worse… but also so much more necessary.

 

He felt his jaw set as he looked at Alfred. “Tell me what to do.”


	36. Chapter 36

Bruce sat at the mess hall and chewed on a stale crust of bread. King, unconcerned with who people saw him, was sitting to his left trying to talk through his confusion at the concept of smart phones. Encouraged by King’s presence Ricky had joined him as well and was attempting to shed some light on the subject.

 

Across the room was the boy. The _new_ boy.

 

He sat alone, slowly stirring his meal together until it turned into slush on his tray.

 

There was something about him. He wasn’t in his element like King. He wasn’t out of it like Ricky. He knew the prison but he wasn’t a part of it. Or, perhaps, he wasn’t scared of the prison. Wasn’t scared either because he didn’t believe people would hurt him or didn’t care if they did.

 

He also knew Bruce was watching him.

  

Bruce saw those eyes dance up towards him… and then down again. Not shy. Rather, aware of him without engaging.

 

“I just don’t get it man,” King said. “Ain’t it easier just to call someone? Why write it out?”

 

“I dunno. Nobody calls now. Everyone texts.”

 

“Why do you call them phones then? They’re just... mail.”

 

Bruce stopped trying to convince himself the crust of bread was edible and dropped it down onto his empty tray. The food was awful but despite it he had never cleaned a plate so well. He’d bought a stack of packaged noodles from commissary but had ended up giving them to Ricky rather than eat them which, in hindsight, had been a mistake… and probably one he was going to keep making as long as Ricky stayed so skinny.

 

He pushed away from the table, scooped up his tray, and walked toward the drop off point. And stopped. When he started again he was walking towards the boy.

 

He didn’t know what he was going to do or say. It didn’t matter. He had been looking at him for days, trying to place him, trying to figure him out, and he still knew nothing.

 

The boy looked up as he approached and there was something there. Something in his eyes beside apathy. Something…

 

A body stepped in his way.

 

It was the old man. He looked somehow different in the mess hall as opposed to the bathroom they routinely scrubbed. More feeble yet also, paradoxically, more threatening.

 

“You leave him alone,” he poked a bony finger at Bruce. “He doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

 

Bruce glared at him.

 

“Kids,” the man hissed. “That’s who you pick on. Kids. I’ve done some fucked up shit but kids? Nah. I never messed with the kids.”

 

“I just want to talk.”

 

“Talk?” A disbelieving stare. “About joining your gang?”

 

Bruce pushed past him. The old man grabbed his arm, hauled him awkwardly back. A few inmates hooted, keen for a fight. A few guards called out, keen to stop one.

 

Bruce pried the man’s arm off him with a snarl. “Don’t touch me.”

 

“I told you. I told you this would happen. You’re forming a gang and…”

 

“I’m not forming a gang you…” And that was when he saw it… and when he did everything else seemed to fall away. The cafeteria, the boy… In that split second all he saw was the old man.


	37. Chapter 37

Clark didn’t know how he knew something was wrong. But he did. He had never been as sure as anything in his life. Something was very  _very_ wrong.  And unless he did something soon it would only get worse.

 

In a split second he’d torn himself out of the air above the prison and was flying towards the manor. In the next instant he was in the batcave yanking the Justice League communicator out of the nearest cowl and slowly plugged through the human speed commends until it called Superman.

 

“Answer Bruce,” Clark hissed. “Please. Answer. _Please_. Don’t.”

 

He turned to look through all the walls and distance between them. He saw Bruce standing in front of that old man, hands bunched into fists,  _so_ close to attacking him. So terrifyingly close.

 

He was an old man. If Bruce attacked him he would be put back in solitary. God, why did he want to attack him? How had he turned from annoyed to nigh on deadly in a matter of seconds? Bruce had been talking to him. Just talking. And then something had happened. Clark didn’t know what… but it was bad. And whatever it was it made Bruce want to hurt that man. Hurt him badly.

 

“Please,” he begged. “Just pick up. Walk away. Just…”

 

Bruce spun on his heel and marched away from the old man. Tapped his ear.

 

His voice was horse but soft. _“Hey, Damian? Is that you?”_

 

Clark’s throat seized. It was one thing to watch Bruce. Another thing to talk via their letters. Another all together to hear him talk softly, almost tenderly, in his ear.

 

Bruce. _“I can’t talk right now. But you can. Go ahead.”_

 

Clark watched as Bruce walking stiffly back through the cafeteria, threw his tray up on the stack by the bins, and went to lean against the wall by the door, waiting to be able to leave. The other inmates were watching, aware perhaps that something had happened but not sure what it was. The guards were watching too.

 

Clark felt like he was in the same position. Watching. Unable to do anything. Unsure if there was anything to do.

_“Damian?”_ Bruce asked again. Softly. His lips barely moving.

 

“I-it’s me.” Clark stammered.

 

Bruce sucked in a breath… and that too was right in his ear. A soft intimate sound.

 

“Sorry. I… sorry. I just thought… I wanted to…” he was shaking. Fuck. How was this affecting him so much? He talked to him all the time. He’ laughed and joked and whined at Bruce for  _years_. But now after only a few short months…

 

_“Clark.”_

 

That word shocked Clark out of his thoughts. Bruce was talking… in public. “No. Don’t say anything. I’m sorry I just thought you needed… help.” It felt stupid to say it out loud. “You seemed suddenly very upset.”

 

Bruce opened his mouth.

 

“No no no. Don’t say anything. I just…” he sucked in a deep breath. Let it out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you when you couldn’t talk back.”

 

Softly. Nearly a whisper. _“When were you planning on calling?”_

 

Clark felt like he’d just been slapped in the face. “I… well…”

 

Bruce let out a breath. It was shaking. He was still angry. Still upset. Clark wasn’t sure if he was helping or making that situation worse.

 

“Hey. Look. I know I’m an arsehole. I should have called I’ve just been… hung up.”

 

Bruce was still just breathing.

 

Clark didn’t know what it was about the man that had made him snap. He just knew he wasn’t helping. So he did something he didn’t think he could do. He put aside his own curiosity, his own questions, and just spoke. He filled the silence, mindlessly. “So, eh, Damian’s back at school. I never thought I would ever see a teenager happy to go to school but, yeah. I think Dick’s suffering a bit. He has no friend to play the new Ninja Warrior game with. He’s tried to recruit me a few times.”

 

He kept talking.

 

Bruce kept listening.

 

And slowly he seemed to calm down. When the guards yelled to move the inmates back towards the cellblock he walked slowly, head down, and kept listening. When they were doing a headcount he stood with his hands in his pockets and kept listening. When he was back in the cellblock he moved to the far side of the open space, ripped off his shirt, and started doing pushups.

 

Clark stuttered. Thankfully Bruce, now away from the other inmates, was quick on the uptake.

 

_“What the hell is going on out there, Clark?”_

 

“I… what do you…?”

 

_“I get the paper in here, Clark.”_

 

Something caught in his throat. His night as Batman had widely been unreported. There had been a number of copycats since Bruce was locked up and public attention was starting to swing away from Batman. But, despite that, rumours were spreading. After all, he’d had the equipment. He’d had the look. He didn’t seem like a copycat… and even if the media hadn’t mentioned it yet the streets were whispering. Had some paper got ahead of the game? Had they printed a story about him? Had Bruce seen it?

 

Did he know he had worn his suit?

  

“I just… thought… since you were in there…”

 

_“So it’s about me?”_

 

“No. Yes. I…”

 

_“You left the Daily Planet for me?”_

 

Clark stopped. The Daily Planet. They were talking about The Daily Planet. I get the paper in here… shit. Okay. This wasn’t something he had been expected to be confronted on but, in a way, it was better. Easier than talking about his night as Batman.

 

“I’m going back. Soon, actually. I… I don’t know how I feel about it.”

 

 _“Why? It’s what you do, Clark. You’re good at it. I don’t want…”_ A pause. When he spoke again his voice was harder. More controlled. _“I don’t want to take that from you.”_

 

“It’s not you. I mean… it was I… I was just really upset. And they wanted me to write an article about ‘a boy crying in the street missing Batman’ or something and it just… didn’t work. I needed some time.” And, if he was being honest, he still felt like he needed more time. A lot more time. But, despite Alfred’s account, he knew he needed the money. More, he needed to get back to work. To get out of the manor. To be _normal_ again… even if normal still felt impossible without Bruce.

 

 _“A boy crying about Batman?”_ Bruce barked out a horse laugh. _“Is that news now days?”_

 

“Hey. It’s… its sorta news.”

 

 _“I knew people would get upset when I went to prison,”_ Bruce said softly. _“I knew that. I knew I was going to hurt a great many people. My family…”_ he closed his eyes but continued his press ups… slower though. Less upset. More hurt _. “Even fans,”_ he went on. _“I knew there would be a lot of disappointed kids. No kid wants to know Batman is that old misogynist billionaire with diamond cuff links.”_

 

“Hey. You’re not…”

 

 _“Superman though.”_ Bruce shook his head. _“I never thought you would be upset. In passing perhaps. But not… not enough to leave The Daily Planet for. I never realised how much this would hurt you.”_ A low breathless laugh. _“That should be news. Not some fan. Not even my family. You. The one that not even the World’s Greatest Detective saw coming.”_


	38. Chapter 38

That night he dreamt about his parents. In his dream they were murky faced giants smiling and swinging him between them by his arms.

 

“Higher!” He cried _. “Higher!”_

 

“Careful there, little man. Go too high and we might lose you.”

 

“Oh, let him have fun, Tom.”

 

“Higher! I want to go higher.”

 

“Okay. Hold on, Bruce. One two three…”

 

Bruce laughed as his feet lifted off the ground, his body swinging up toward the sky. But then, as he reached the highest point of his swing, an ear splitting sound cut through the air. A gun shot. Two. His parents’ grip slipped and in an instant he was falling, rolling, flailing up into the sky.

 

Everything reversed. There was a city in the sky. A city he was falling toward. A city he needed to protect. His city.

 

He tried to deploy his cape to glide onto one of the approaching rooftops. It wasn’t there. He reached for his grapple gun. Also missing. The ground was coming up fast now. Too fast. He grabbed at his ear. Found a communicator there. The one thing left to him. It felt strange. Superman’s communicator, not his. That didn’t matter.

 

“Superman! Come in, Superman! Come in! Come in!”

 

The tower tops were getting closer.

 

“Clark! _Clark!_ Come in! I…”

 

Clark’s voice sounded dispassionate and distant in his ear. _“What is it Batman?”_

 

“I need you. I need…” the ground was rising to meet him. The towers were already above him. He could hear the sound of the city all around him. Too late. It was too late. He closed his eyes.

 

 _“Batman.”_ Clark sounded almost angry. _“What do you need?”_

 

He opened his eyes. He wasn’t falling. He was on the ground, in a room. Small. Bad smelling.

 

At his feet was a man.

 

He was dead.

 

Bruce had killed him.

 

The realisation hit him in a wave of sickening horror. He hadn’t meant to kill him. He’d just wanted to hurt him. To make him understand. But now he was dead and someone, far away, was screaming.

 

Clark’s voice sounded in his ear. _“Do you need backup?”_

 

Bruce stared at the body before him. At his own bloody fists. “I… no.”

 

_“Are you in danger?”_

 

“No.”

 

_“Can you contact someone else?”_

 

“No I…” his voice failed him. He bowed his head. “I just need you.” He needed him. He needed Clark. Not because of his strength or his speed or his super powered sight. He needed _him_.

 

But, for the first time since he’d peeled off his cowl in front of the other man, Clark wasn’t coming to save him. _“I can’t help you right now Batman.”_

 

Batman. Not Bruce. Batman. “Clark…”

 

_“I’m busy.”_

 

“It’s not… please. Please I’ve hurt someone. I need… I don’t know what to do. I…” But Clark was gone.

 

And it was a lie.

 

He knew what to do. He’d always known what to do if this happened. He’d planned for it. Written about it. He had to do it. He had to. There was too much at stake. _Damian… I’m so sorry…_ he tapped his communicator again. Four taps. Commissioner Gordon picked up on the first ring.

_“Batman?”_

 

“Batman!”

 

He jerked awake. Ricky stood over him in his baggy white prison pyjamas. “Batman?”

 

Outside the other inmates were whooping and rattling their doors. He could hear the _stomp stomp stomp_ of a guard unit moving into the cellblock.

 

“What happened?”

 

Ricky shook his head. “I don’t know. I just…” a pause. Long. Ugly. “I think someone’s been stabbed.”


	39. Chapter 39

The second night Clark was Batman was harder than the first. Much harder. It was as if the first time he wore the suit was just a dream. A surreal moment in time where he did something that, in the light of day, could be ignored if not forgotten about.

 

The second time it happened it felt like an affair. He was a cheating husband sneaking out at night and pulling the blanket over his family’s eyes. Only that meant his family were Bruce, Dick, and Damian… and that was a metaphor too close to his heart to stomach.

 

He flew around the city in a way which he hoped didn’t look too _Superman_ , stopped some low level drug dealers from plying their trade along the dockside, and managed to rumble out a warning or two to some kids he hoped Bruce would have let walk without a beating. He didn’t know if any of it helped divert attention from Dick who Alfred had managed to bully into a semi-public date, or Damian who seemed to be regretting going back to school. He didn’t even know if he was making any sort of dent in Gotham’s slowly but surely skyrocketing crime rate.

 

All he knew was this was something Alfred had asked of him and, somehow, this would make things better. He wasn’t sure how. He was terrified what would cross his mind if he paused to think about it. So he didn’t. He just did.

 

“You did well, Mr Kent,” Alfred said when he flew back into the cave, black cape flapping around him. “I have set a towel aside for you if you would like to take a shower.”

 

“Thanks Alfred.”

 

“Oh and, Mr Kent.”

 

“Yes Alfred.”

 

“Let’s do this again tomorrow.”

 

Clark’s tongue had felt large and unwieldy in his mouth. Too big to articulate the words that needed to be said. So he just nodded.

 

The third night Clark was Batman was harder than the second. The fourth harder than the third. The fifth night was when people started to take notice. Criminals steered clear of his regular route and marked the streets he’d been spotted in with spray painted bat symbols, some teens climbed up the side of the GCPD in an attempt to turn on the bat signal, and a few independent magazines wrote articles that made the journalist inside him cringe.

 

If Damian and Dick were suspicious they didn’t show it. “It was bound to happen,” Dick said when Clark nervously brought it up over breakfast. “I’m surprised there’s not more copycats around, actually.”

 

“He’s an imposter,” Damian spat into his cereal. “We should make him pay for wearing father’s symbol.”

 

Dick rolled his eyes, Alfred clucked his tongue, and Clark tried and failed to look guilty as he added honey to his breakfast.

 

But, despite that, when Alfred came to him the next night with the cape and cowl he put them on. He even went a step further and started appearing in more public and populated areas. It was against Alfred’s instruction but, he rationalised, it would spread the stories of the new Batman faster which could only prove Dick’s innocence harder. A small part of him also hoped that if more people knew there was a Batman operating in Gotham again more people might start to rethink Bruce’s conviction. The rational part of his brain knew this wasn’t going to happen. Bruce had presented too much evidence and the delay between Bruce’s conviction and Batman’s reappearance was damning. But, still, he couldn’t help himself from hoping.

 

Perhaps, he thought, he could somehow figure out a way to write an article about it when he went back to the Daily Planet. Is Bruce Wayne Really Batman? Lois would laugh at him. Perry would probably fire him for putting together such a clickbait article. But a part of him thought it would be worth it.

 

Until he remembered Bruce’s anger and distress believing he had somehow cost Clark his job.

 

And that made him feel wretched for even thinking of it.

 

On the eighth night there was an alert in Bruce’s cellblock. It was the first time that had happened at night and Clark had abandoned his bat impersonation mid swing and flown to the prison. There was a fraction of a second between him hearing the disturbance and seeing Bruce still locked safe within his cell. It felt like an age, the relief that followed it crushing. Bruce was fine. He was fine.

 

Ricky was nervous, hopping around the narrow space like a grasshopper in a jar. Bruce stood with his head to the tiny window in the door. Gathering what information he could from the storm of guards in the cellblock below.

 

When Clark looked his heart lurched.

 

There was blood on the floor. A lot of it.

 

The guards were taking an inmate out on a stretcher… and pinning another against the wall.

 

“I didn’t do it! Fuck you! Let me go! _Let me go!”_

 

King. They were handcuffing King. Beside him Clark could see another guard picking up a homemade knife and slipping it into an evidence bag. On the stretcher was the body of the old man.


	40. Chapter 40

Bruce was handcuffed to the table.

 

The warden – Carlson Grey – sat opposite wearing a stiff suit and a practised frown. Behind him was an unmanned camera. The red light beside the lens was on. Recording.

 

“I am sure you know why you’re here.”

 

“King didn’t do it.”

 

“Inmate 21398572,” the warden read the number of the file in front of him. “Kingsley Jesse Martin. He’s got a history. Attempted murder with a deadly weapon, assault with a deadly weapon, possession of deadly weapons… and now this.”

 

“He. Didn’t. Do. It.”

 

“How can you be so sure?”

 

“He said he didn’t do it.”

 

A sharp look. “You’re in contact with him? He’s in segregation.”

 

“He said he didn’t do it before you took him away.” Bruce glared at the other man. “I was listening.”

 

“And you believed him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is this how you won the title ‘World’s Greatest Detective?”

 

Bruce didn’t say anything.

 

The warden sighed. Another practised move. “I am afraid I am not as sure of Mr Martin’s innocence as you, Mr Wayne. But that is not for us to decide. Tomorrow he’ll be bought before a judge. Today, I want to uncover the reason why he attacked inmate 1256309.” A piece of paper came out of the file and was placed before Bruce. “You didn’t like the victim very much. And he didn’t like you.”

 

On the paper was screenshots of security footage. Bruce and the old man facing off in the cafeteria.

 

“He also came to us last week with a report against you. Apparently he thought you were forming a gang with Muller and Martin.”

 

“You think I ordered him killed?”

 

The warden was silent for a moment. Then… “Do you wish to make a statement?”

 

“Yes,” Bruce leant forward. “He didn’t do it.”

 

“Who did?”

 

Bruce twitched. Didn’t say anything.

 

“Very well,” the warden stood. “That will be all for now, inmate.” He walked to the camera, switched it off, and looked up at Bruce. All his composure was gone. All his professional formality and ridged remorse. Instead he just looked furious.

 

“I gave you the boy, Wayne. I have you Richard fucking Muller. And this is how you repay me?”

 

“I didn’t form a gang.”

 

“I don’t give a shit if you formed a gang or not. You ordered a damn murder. Murder means press and that is not something I need.”

 

Bruce glared. “I didn’t order a murder.”

 

“I’m not an idiot,” the man snarled and sat back down opposite him. “Inmate 1256309. Joseph Chill. The man ratting out your gang. The man who gunned down your—”

 

“Watch it,” Bruce snarled.

 

“You wanted him dead,” the warden pointed a finger. “ _You_. Now you’ve got your wish and the less pretty of your two little boy toys is going to maximum security for the rest of his life. Small price to pay, am I right?”

 

Bruce stared. “You can’t send him to… he didn’t do it! He’s getting out in a few years.”

 

“The camera’s off, idiot. Don’t pretend to care.”

 

“He didn’t…”

 

“Four cells were open. Four. Each one with an inmate in it for early morning kitchen duties. The guard was going upstairs to get Muller out of your cell when Chill was stabbed twenty seven times while he slept.”

 

“Four cells,” Bruce snarled. “Eight inmates. Chill was one of them. King another. There are six others who could have stabbed him.”

 

“No one else had motive. No one else had a history of stabbing. No one else had literal _blood on their hands_. He’s finished. You. Not so much. You’re staying here. But - unless you want me to make the rest of your years a living hell – you’re going to come to _me_ when you want someone gone, not one of your little bitches. Do we understand each other?”

 

“I want my lawyer.”

 

“You’re in prison. You don’t get a lawyer.”

 

“King is going before a judge. He has the right to an attorney.”

 

“Jesus. You’re not letting this go, are you? Yeah. Kingsley Martin is entitled to a lawyer. That doesn’t include one of your big fancy million dollar paper pushers. He’ll get a court appointed representative and you know what they’ll plead? Guilty.” The man cocked his head as something seemed to occur to him. “Is that it? Did you think you would get your boy off with some up market lawyer? You haven’t even squared away our last deal. I put you in the cell with Muller and it took weeks for your butler to even acknowledge my invoice. Now you want me to let you organise a lawyer.” He leant forward. Close. Too close. “Go to hell, Batman.”

 

He stood. Walked out.


	41. Chapter 41

Batman’s communicator pinged in his ear. For a moment Clark thought it was Alfred calling to comment on his lack of progress so far… then he remembered the cowl didn’t ping for Alfred. It cut straight to audio… and the only other person who called Batman now was…

 

He tapped the side of the cowl. “Bruce? God. How are…?”

 

_“Clark. I need a favour.”_

 

“Anything,” he swore and retreated into the shadows of a nearby building. “Anything Bruce. You know that.”

 

_“I need you to break King out.”_

 

Clark stopped what he was doing. “What?”

_“They’ll put him in maximum security. Give him a life sentence. We need to stop that before it happens.”_

 

“But…” his mind raced. “Bruce. He stabbed…”

 

_“No. He didn’t. I… I just need more time to find out what happened.”_

 

“If you’re going to clear him then why…?”

 

 _“Just!”_ Bruce paused. Gathered himself. _“I… I don’t know what I’ll be able to… or how long… or…”_

 

“Do you think he didn't do it?” Clark asked softly. “Really?”

 

 _“No. I… I don’t know. He probably saw me confront Chill in the cafeteria so maybe… but no. It doesn’t make sense… I…”_ Bruce sucked in a breath. _“He’ll got to max, Clark. I can’t stop it. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s a kid for Christ’s sake. He stole tires and fought back against a rapist and…”_

 

“Killed a man to please you?”

 

_“No! He…”_

 

“Bruce I… I don’t know about this. He’ll be on the run for the rest of his life.”

_“Better than in prison.”_

 

“Can you really say that? If he is innocent and you prove it he’ll be released on time. He’ll…”

 

 _“I’m an **inmate** , Clark. Even if I can prove it…”_ a loud shuddering breath _. “I can’t help him, Clark. Please. For me. Help him. Take him somewhere better. Dye his hair. Get him a fake ID. Lock him in the fortress until his sentence is served if it makes you feel better. But, please, don’t send him to max. He’ll be a victim again if he goes back there.”_

 

“Bruce I…” Clark looked down at the pavement at his feet. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t even know how I would do this or what to do next or…”

 

_“Clark.”_

 

“I don’t know if I could break someone out of that prison and that person not be you.”

 

He measured time by the beating of his heart.

 

One beat.

 

Then two.

 

Then five.

 

Finally Bruce spoke.

_“It’s different, Clark. I’m guilty. I…”_

 

“And he might be too but for some reason you forgive him. And Jason. And Damian. And Diana. And me… we’ve all killed.”

_“No. You never murdered. You killed but you never…”_

 

“Somehow you can see the nuance with everyone else but yourself. Why? Why do you hold yourself to such a…”

 

 _“Because I **enjoy** it_ ,” Bruce snarled. _“Is that what you wanted to hear? I enjoy hurting people. I enjoy making them hurt for everything they’ve done. I enjoyed ki—“_ An ugly pause. Long. Painful. _“I didn’t mean to kill him. That doesn’t matter. I killed him because I stopped paying attention and started having fun. And I can’t… I can’t let Damian see that. I can’t let him think that’s…”_

 

Clark was horrified. “Bruce…”

 

 _“If it was Joker,”_ Bruce went on, voice little more than a dull rasp _, “or Penguin or Two Face I would have been prepared. I would have been in control. But he was nobody. He was nothing. It was just another night and I hit hard… so hard… I didn’t mean…”_

 

“Bruce,” he said again. Firmer this time. “No. Don’t… don’t think like that I…”

 

The line went dead.

 

Clark looked across the city. Saw Bruce sitting on the edge of his bed, head in hands, sides shaking. He’d hung up. And Clark couldn’t blame him.

 

_Bruce…_

 

He loved him. It was a fact he knew suddenly with crushing certainty. He knew because no matter what Bruce had just admitted… he still wanted to rip him out of that place and hold him close until none of this mattered. Until the whole world faded and it was just them, together. Until Bruce was okay again. All he wanted in the world was for Bruce to be okay again.

_“Fuck!”_

 

Clark’s eyes travelled across the prison to the solitary unit. King was pacing, angry… scared.

 

He looked young. Too young.

 

He also looked like he knew exactly what was about to happen to him.

 

Clark’s eyes moved across he compound one more time to rest on the maximum security unit overhanging the cliffs. The inmates there were locked down twenty hours a day and were only let out in small groups to exercise and shower. He saw inmates passing hard drugs between the bars, a prisoner sucking off a guard in toilet, and a man setting his broken fingers.

 

 It was worse than the main cellblocks.

 

A lot worse.

 

He closed his eyes and silently echoed King.

 

_Fuck._


	42. Chapter 42

He had almost attacked Chill in the mess hall. When the old man had grabbed him his ID had swung to face Bruce. He remembered the moment in vivid detail. CHILL, Joseph. Those two words popping like gunfire in the back of his brain.

 

He’d wanted him dead. He’d wanted him ripped limb from limb. He wanted to do it himself.

 

But then Clark had called and he’d walked away.

 

But someone had seen it. Someone had seen it and killed Chill while he dreamt of his parents dying… and a small terrified part of him thought it could be King. Despite everything the boy was unstable. Had he, as Clark suggested, done it to please him? Was he even capable of that?

 

“Hey, Batman?”

 

Bruce looked up to see Ricky standing hunched and unhappy in the door.

 

“When do you think King is coming back?”

 

He swallowed and bowed his head. It was answer enough.

 

“Shit I…” Ricky looked aside. “ _Shit_.” He wouldn’t say anymore. King was the talker. King was the one that filled the silences with ridiculous boosts and farfetched stories. Bruce hadn’t realised how much he had become used to it.

 

“Who do you have kitchen duties with?” Bruce asked softly.

 

“Huh? What?”

 

“Someone who is on kitchen duties, or their cellmate, stabbed Chill. They were coming up to our cell to get you.”

 

“To get the kitchen ready for breakfast. I know but…” Ricky looked at him. “You think someone else killed him?”

 

He didn’t answer.

 

“Okay. Um.” Ricky rubbed the back of his neck “Kitchen duties. Right. It’s me, King, Porkie, Black, and Samson.”

 

“Porkie, Black, and Samson?”

 

“Porkie’s the big guy with white hair, Black isn’t black, he’s got red hair and glasses, and Samson’s the Asian guy with a tattoo here,” he jabbed at his neck.

 

Bruce nodded and closed his eyes. He pictured the three inmates. Pictured their cells. Porkie was the one that shared a cell with Chill. He’d seen them standing beside each other in roll call. In his mind’s eye they were indifferent. Not friends but not enemies either. Porkie, he believed, was also getting close to his release. He wasn’t sure how or where he had picked up this information – perhaps during one of King’s long tirades about his own incoming freedom – but he was sure of it. Why would he kill now? He wouldn’t.

 

He didn’t know anything about Black or his cellmate. Both wildcards. Samson...

 

“King’s cellmate is Vinnie,” Ricky said, clearly warming to this detective idea. “He’s a murderer. I heard him bragging about it once. Was it him? He’s the short one with the funny teeth. You seen him?”

 

“The one with the limp?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Bruce shook his head. “Chill was old but he wasn’t frail. He would have been able to fight him off or at least make some noise while it happened.”

 

“I guess…”

 

“Samson’s cell,” Bruce muttered. “It’s…” he trailed off. “It’s the one at the top of the stairs.”

 

“So?”

 

Bruce rubbed his brow. “He couldn’t have gotten downstairs in time to commit the murder. Even if he did the guard would have seen him.”

 

So the suspects were Black and Black’s cellmate… and King.

 

He pushed that thought aside.

 

“Tell me about Black.”

 

Ricky seemed uncomfortable. “I… he’s tall. Skinny.”

 

“What’s he like?”

 

“He does his time kinda quiet, I guess. Don’t think he’s got a beef with anyone. Don’t think anyone’s got a beef with him. He’s super picky in the kitchen. Cleans everything three times.”

 

“His cellmate?”

 

“I… I dunno who it is. I know he’s in cell sixty three. He says it with his ID number when we check in which everyone thinks is weird but he’s a bit of an OCD type, you know. We all just say our ID but he says his name, ID, cell, cellblock, date of birth…”

 

“Cell sixty three,” Bruce echoed. Rubbed his brow. _No… No it couldn’t be…_

 

Ricky studied him. “Do you need me to do anything? I can sneak around. Maybe spy on Black.”

 

“No,” Bruce stood. “It wasn’t Black. It’s…”

 

A figure stepped into the cell doorway behind Ricky. The boy yelped in surprise and scampered to his bedside. It was guard. Big. Burly. The one that looked like he enjoyed his job a little too much.

 

“Wayne,” the man said. “You’re coming with me.”


	43. Chapter 43

It was a tricky thing, breaking someone out of prison. Even with all his powers he wasn’t sure how to approach it. He considered every angle, every possibility. In the end he just knocked the wall down.

 

King yelled and lashed out as Clark grabbed him under the arms and launched them up into the clouds. For a moment he felt the body in his arm seize up against the G force pounding against it. He pressed King’s face into his chest where the air was swirling slow enough for him to breathe and dove down toward a dark patch of parkland just north of the city.

 

King dropped to the ground and threw up the second they landed.

 

“I’m sorry. I had to do that fast. The cameras only faced away for a few seconds.”

 

“Do what?” The boy rasped. “What the fuck happened? Who…” he stopped suddenly. Clark watched him run his fingers through the grass under him. He stroked it. Plucked at it. Brought it up to his face to smell it. There was no grass in Blackgate. Only cement. “Shit.” He rocked back onto his heels to stare at the lawn beneath them. Then up at a nearby tree. Then Around at the stars. “ _Shit_. I…” he looked at Clark for the first time then stared. “Superman? I… You’re…”

 

“Batman called in a favour,” he said. He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t know why he didn’t just tell him the truth. That Bruce had asked and he had acted. No favours. No debts. Just _them_. He didn’t know why he didn’t want King to know how close they were… but he didn’t. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

 

“Batman,” King echoed. “Oh fuck _yeah_! I knew Mr Batman wouldn’t forget about me. I knew he knew I didn’t do it. He…” King trailed off. “Where is he?”

 

“In Blackgate.”

 

“But I… why am I…?”

 

“Here?”

 

“Yeah…”

 

Clark wasn’t sure how to answer that.

 

“Am I free?” King asked.

 

“No,” he straightened. Put on his best Superman voice. Even put his hands on his hips. “Batman may trust you but I have yet to be convinced. You will stay at my house until Batman has proved your innocence or your sentence is up.”

 

King didn’t look angry or sad or even defeated. He looked excited. “Your house? Superman’s house?”

 

“Yes I…”

 

“Is Superdog there?”

 

“Krypto is… a long story but… yes. Sometimes.”

 

“Is it true you have a zoo of alien animals?”

 

“Zoo is a strong word. I…”

 

“And does Supergir—?”

 

“Hey. You watch it. That’s my cousin.”

 

“Oh man. Ricky is going to _die_ when he hears about this! He loves you, you know. _Looovveess_ you. I mean, he thinks Batman’s okay now that he knows him but…”

 

“Okay,” Clark held up his hand and grimly wondered if he could just put him back in his cell. Forget this whole thing ever happened. “Okay.”

 

“Wait,” King’s face fell. “Won’t they be looking for me? What about my baby sister? She’s gonna have a baby soon. I need…”

 

Any thoughts of returning him to Blackgate vanished. “We’ll sort that out,” Clark promised. “Even if it means getting you a new ID. We’ll make it work.”

 

“But…”

 

“Or, I could take you back to Blackgate. I don’t want to do this without your consent. I can just drop you off at the door.” God knows how he could do that and not make it worse for everyone involved but it was up to King. If he wanted to stay in Blackgate then that was where he would stay.

 

He needn’t have worried. King was already shaking his head. “No. No man. They were going to put me in the pen. I know they were. I could smell it in the air. They were going to put me in _deep_ and throw away the key.”

 

“Yeah,” Clark’s shoulders slumped. “That’s what Batman thought too.”

 

A pause.

 

“My home is a little way away,” he said awkwardly. “Do you… um… well… I’ll get you a jacket.”

 

"A jacket?"

 

"It's cold. And... well... it will take us a while to fly there."

 

King's eyes were stars. "Fly?"


	44. Chapter 44

Bruce lay in solitary – the same four walls that nearly drove him crazy a month before – and smiled.

 

Clark had done it. He’d rescued King.

 

_I knew you would you big beautiful bleeding heart. I knew you would._

 

Once the break out had been confirmed the warden – now well and truly an enemy – sat Bruce in his office, yelled at him for almost half an hour, and finally locked him up in segregation. The warden knew he was involved, he just couldn’t prove it. Without proof he wouldn’t be able to keep him in segregation long.

 

But that wasn’t why he was smiling.

 

He was smiling because he’d seen the half-finished press statement sitting on the warden’s desk. Clayton Grey was planning on telling the media that the prison had experienced a ‘structural failure’. The inmate in the cell that failed was killed. His body had fallen with the rubble out the side of the building, down the cliffs, and was lost to sea.

 

In a few short hours King would be officially dead.

 

And that meant he would be safe.

 

No one would look for him. No one would hunt him. Once he had a new identity he would be free.

 

It was his first major victory since coming to prison… and it tasted sweet.

 

 _“…copycat Batman,”_ Damian’s voice hissed in his ear. “And nobody cares. Dick just says it was bound to happen.”

 

“He’s right. There has always been copycats.”

 

 _“But now you’re not here!_ ” The boy cried, affronted. _“Soon they’ll stop calling him copycat and start calling him Batman!”_

 

“Has Gordon turned the batsignal on?”

 

_“That doesn’t…”_

 

“It does,” he said firmly. “Has he turned the batsignal on?”

 

Grudgingly. _“No.”_

 

“Then Gotham won’t call him Batman.”

 

_“But…!”_

 

“Unless the police recognise him, Gotham won’t. Trust me.”

 

 _“But father, you don’t underst…”_ Damian trailed off. _“The batsignal. Of course.”_ There was something behind those words. Something that sounded like the ten year old who had set fire to the batcave in an attempt to drive Tim out.

 

“Damian?”

 

_“Thank you father.”_

 

“Damian. Wait. I…”

 

_“You can talk to Grayson now.”_

 

Bruce heard the rustle as Damian passed over the communicator. The next voice he heard was Dick’s.

 

_“Hey, big guy. I won’t be long, okay. I know you probably want to talk to Clark before you have to go or… something.”_

 

Bruce rubbed his brow. Ever since Dick had decided he and Clark were in some sort of relationship he had been going out of his way to prove he was okay with it… and failing. “I want to talk to you.”

 

_“You sure? Clark is going back to work next Monday. He’s going to be busier from now on. Besides, I’ll see you tomorrow for visitation.”_

 

Bruce’s smile slipped. “No I… I’m in segregation.”

 

Dick gasped. _“Wait **what**? What the hell did you do?”_

 

“Nothing.”

 

_“Nothing? Seriously? Why are you in solitary then?”_

 

“I…” Bruce licked his lips. “It’s a long story.”

 

_“Let me guess, Clark knows?”_

 

Bruce didn’t answer.

 

_“Jesus. Sorry that was… that was catty. Okay. Um. I’ll… talk to you some other time then. Clark’s in the fortress of solitude. I can transfer you now. Hold on.”_

 

“Dick. Wait.”

 

But he was gone. In his place was an exhausted sounding Clark.

 

_“Hello?”_

 

For a moment Bruce didn’t say anything, vividly remembering their previous painful conversation. He’d confessed to Clark. Confessed in a way he hadn’t done before. Not in front of Gordon, the court, or even his family. He’d told him the reason. The reason why he had to be here. And Clark had saved King anyway.

 

“Hey, it’s me.”

 

Clark sucked in a breath. _“Hey.”_

 

“I…” he closed his eyes. Rubbed his brow. “Thanks for… you know.”

 

_“Don’t mention it.”_

 

“And thanks for…” _still talking to me after what I told you even though you know - you know now - that I don’t deserve it. You know why I am here_. “…everything. Again. I know I’ve said that but… thanks.”

 

 _“Bruce,”_ Clark sighed. Didn’t say anything more.

 

When had they become so awkward around each other? When had they started whispering and waiting for the other to speak?

 

_“Bruce?”_

 

“Hi Yes. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to be transferred to you. Dick thinks we… I mean… about the… in the yard.”

 

Clark was silent.

 

“Fuck I…” He thought about that kiss. About Clark. About everything that made them an impossibility at this moment in time. “I want you to know that if this hadn’t happened, if I was somewhere else, I would… I mean I…” He didn’t know how to say this.

 

_“Bruce?”_

 

He closed his eyes. Gave up trying. “Yes Clark?”

 

_“I’m in love with you.”_

 

Bruce sucked in a breath. “Cl—”

 

_“Don’t. Please. Don’t tell me how stupid this is or how bad the timing is. I know. I do. Just… thought you should know.”_

 

“Clark. I… that’s what I…”

 

 _“And I don’t expect anything,”_ Clark blurted out suddenly. _“I don’t… shit. This is coming out all wrong.”_

 

“Clark?”

 

Softly. _“Yeah?”_

 

A pause. Long. Heavy. Bruce counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. It took ten before he finally worked up the courage to say it. “Me too.”

 

Clark let out a long shuddered breath. _“Jesus, Bruce. Don’t mess with me here. I… I didn’t mean it in a brotherly or…”_

 

“Me neither.”

 

_“No Bruce I… I…”_

 

 _“Hey!”_ King’s voice sounded over the speaker followed by a thudding of footsteps. _“Is that Batman? Hey Mr Batman! I’m here! I knew you weren’t crazy. I knew you were talking to Superman. I knew all along. Hey! You won’t believe what superfood tastes like! And there is this bird thing in one of the cages which likes getting petted and…”_

Clark. _“I told you to stay out of the exhibits.”_

 

_“See through space man said it wasn’t a bad thing like the starfish thing. He said I could go in.”_

_“Jor-El!”_

 

Bruce felt his smile creep back as he listened to Clark trying to reprogram Jor-El over King’s excited chatter.


	45. Chapter 45

Clark was cuffing an unconscious criminal to a lamppost when it happened.

 

“Alfred?”

 

_“I see it, Mr Kent.”_

 

“What do I do?”

 

_“I think you know the answer to that.”_

 

Clark opened his mouth to protest. Closed it.

 

The sky above him was lit up in a stark black and white symbol. Two stylised wings flared out, ready to attack. The bat signal.

 

It was probably just those teenagers again. They’d probably managed to get to the signal this time and turn it on before the police caught them. But what if it wasn’t? What if rumour really had worked its way up into the GCPD? What if they believed Batman was back… and needed his help?

 

He started to lift off the ground.

 

Paused.

 

This was his last night as Batman. He hadn’t told Alfred that. He hadn’t told anyone that. But it was. He couldn’t keep doing this. Not after he told Bruce he loved him. Not after Bruce told him the same back.

 

If he was honest, he wasn’t sure why he was still doing this. The press were bored of Batman and suspicion was now well and truly off Dick and Damian’s shoulders. If that wasn’t enough he was going back to work tomorrow. He needed to focus on being _him_ again. Not Bruce. But, despite that, Alfred kept laying out the suit and – when he got back – a towel and pyjamas. He was starting to suspect him being Batman was helping Alfred as much as the boys… but he would never say that aloud.

 

Was it right to go to the batsignal if he had no intension of wearing the cape and cowl again come sunrise?

 

“Alfred I… I don’t know about this.”

 

 _“I assure you Mr Kent it will be quite alright. If you ever need…”_ he trailed off.

 

Clark heard Dick’s voice echo through the speaker. _“Alfred? Are you down here? Do you know where Damian is? I… what are you doing?”_

 

The line went dead.

 

And Clark was on his own. Floating above the pavement, staring up at the sky.

 

The batsignal was scary. He’d never realised it before… He wanted to run and hide. But the signal hadn’t been switched off yet either. That meant it wasn’t just some teenage hooligans climbing the GCPD. That meant it was on for a _reason_.

 

“Shit.”

 

He bolted up into the sky, swooped toward the building, and pulled the grapple gun from his belt. When he was close enough to be in eye line of anyone standing on the GCPD rooftop he fired the gun and swung. He was sure the action looked messy and unpractised. Hoped the fact that he managed to – with a little boost from his powers – land on the eves of the building.

 

Four men stood around the batsignal in massive trench coats.

 

The nearest turned towards him.

 

“Hello.”

 

It was Commissioner Gordon. To his left was a man wearing a badge and a police camera. To his right a woman wearing the same. Behind him was Damian.

 

 _Shit_. This was a set up. He shouldn’t have come. But he couldn’t leave now. Not without flying. Not without giving away his identity.

 

He echoed Gordon’s greeting. “Hello.”

 

“I’m Commissioner Jim Gordon. These are my associates,” he gestured to the cops either side of him. “And this...” he pointed at Damian. “Is your predecessor’s son.”

 

Again. “Hello.”

 

Damian glared at him. He wore civilian clothes but somehow that was worse, so much worse, than if he were dressed as Robin.

 

“He wanted to meet you and – I must confess – I did as well.” Gordon pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to Clark.

 

He shook his head from side to side. Didn’t look away from Damian.

 

Gordon shrugged, popped one into his mouth, and lit it.

 

For a while no one said anything.

 

Clark was the one to break the silence. “What is this about?” The voice distortion filter hid the shake in his voice.

 

The male cop snorted. “This one ain’t Batman. Batman never asks stupid questions.”

 

“Easy Bullock,” Gordon held out his hand. “This is a friendly get together, remember? A little meet and greet.”

 

“Just sayin,” Bullock grunted. “Real Batman was an arsehole but at least he was fucking smart.”

 

“That’s my father’s suit,” Damian said.

 

“Yeah kid,” Bullock rolled his eyes. “We know.”

 

“My father’s _actual_ suit,” Damian articulated angrily. “No copycat idiot could have made that. How did you get it?” The boy spun to face Gordon. “What did you do with the suit in your custody?”

 

“It’s in the evidence locker.”

 

“Who has keys to your evidence locker?”

 

“That’s not…”

 

“It’s my father’s suit! I deserve to know!”

 

“Damian,” Clark took a step forward. “It’s not…”

 

The boy spun to face him. “You don’t talk to me! You’re a thief and a liar! You don’t deserve to wear that symbol!”

 

“It’s not…”

 

“I said _don’t speak_!”

 

Faster than he believed possible Damian was in front of him.

 

Clark backed up a step. Two. His heels were on the edge of the rooftop. Shit. He could jump down and try to deploy his cape. But he didn’t know how Bruce used his cape. What if he screwed up? He would have to fly and then Damian would know. He would…

 

“This is mine.” Damian reached over and with a twist of his wrist pulled the belt from Clark’s hips. “ _This_ is mine.” Damian pulled the cape from his shoulders, knowing exactly where the releases were. “This…” he reached for the cowl.

 

Clark blocked him…

 

…and Damian attacked him.

 

Clark let Damian slam him into the ground and groped for the belt. He needed the grapple gun. With the grapple gun he could make a plausible escape. He could leave without Damian ever knowing who he was or how he got the equipment.

 

His fingers pried blindly at the compartments. Some batterangs, a sonic charge, a gas mask, a smoke bomb, and…

 

Clark gasped in pain. _No_.

 

…a shard of pure kryptonite.

 

The police were trying to pull Damian off him. It didn’t matter. He felt the boy’s fist connect with his mouth. Tasted blood. And then there were fingers at his cowl… and he knew it was too late.

 

Bullock stared down at him as if he’d just grown wings, Damian looked like he’d been slapped in the face, and Gordon dropped his cigarette.

 

“Superman?”

 

Damian’s face contorted. “ _You_?! I… how could you?! You’re on _our_ side! You’re helping us!”

 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked through a mouthful of blood. “I… I was just trying to help. I…”

 

“You were our friend!”

 

“I…” Maybe it was the kryptonite, maybe it was the betrayal on the boy’s face, or maybe it was the months of strain finally reaching their limit. Whatever the reason, he felt himself break. Break in a way what was beyond tears. “I’m so sorry. I just… I wanted to make things right. I wanted to help. I care about Bruce. I care about you.” Ah. So he wasn’t beyond tears after all. “I’m so sorry. I…”

 

Damian spat at him. When he spoke it was in Arabic. _“I will never forgive you.”_

 

Then he was gone.

 

He was gone and Clark was sitting on the top of the GCPD crying as the cops tried to make sense of what they’d just witnessed. At some point Gordon knelt down and put the kryptonite back into the bat belt. Then Bullock was beside him thumping his chest and telling him to ‘buck up’ and ‘kids man’ and ‘so you and the spooky son of a bitch, huh?’

 

He just nodded. Nodded and cried and dreaded what would happen when Bruce found out about all this.


	46. Chapter 46

The next morning a guard slipped a newspaper through the slot in his door. He took it, quietly grateful. Even with the ear piece and his victory over the warden, segregation was hard. The knowledge that Ricky was alone with the killer didn’t help. Any distraction was welcome and the paper was a lot better than the magazine he tore up his first month in segregation. His appreciation skyrocketed when he unfolded it and saw it was the Daily Planet...

 

…and then turned to icy shock in his stomach as he read the front page headline.

 

_Superman Dons the Mask of Batman_

 

Beneath it was a pixelated screengrab of what was unmistakably Clark in a batsuit. A figure stood over him and Bruce felt his throat constrict when he realised it was Damian. He’d grown. He wasn’t as big as the man Bruce could just make out pixelated in the edge of the frame but he filled out the trench coat in a way he wouldn’t have a few months prior.

 

He was yelling at Clark. His face was contorted with rage.

 

Clark looked like his heart was being ripped out of his chest.

 

Bruce dropped the paper and leant back against the wall, trying to make sense of what he’d just read. The copycat Batman… was Clark? Why would he do that? _How_ would he do that? Surely Alfred would have noticed… unless Alfred set it up. It was a frighteningly plausible possibility.

 

He could see it in his mind’s eye. It would start as a onetime thing ‘to protect the boys’. Clark would go along with it. He would be unhappy but he would. He was that sort of guy and didn’t know Alfred well enough to know that the butler was as much Batman as Bruce was. That he would want the dark knight back… and would manipulate in order to get what he wanted.

 

He clenched his hands into fists.

 

He wasn’t sure who he was angry at. He wasn’t sure if it was Alfred, Clark, or himself. But he was angry. Angry in a way he hadn’t been when Damian first told him about the copycat.

 

They had a communicator. Why wouldn’t Clark tell him what was going on? Why wouldn’t Alfred? Why did they go behind his back? _Why did it matter so much?_ He’d abandoned Batman. Did he expect Batman to abandon Gotham? Of course this would happen. Of course.

 

“Fuck!” He punched the wall.

 

Punched it hard enough he felt the shock jolt his bones.

 

Clark had told him he loved him. He’d told Clark the same. They were… not together… they couldn’t be together… but… how could he have said that and not mentioned this? How could he love him and be lying to him? If Clark had _spoken_ to him about it…

 

He didn’t care that Clark was in a batsuit. What he cared about was the lie. What he cared about was the man he loved hadn’t felt he could talk to him. What he cared about was all the walls between him and Clark… both the physical and the metaphorical.

 

His eyes moved back to the paper.

 

He studied the look on Clark’s face. Even through the clumpy pixelated blur he could see the guilt and the heartbreak etched onto the man’s features. His face was down, his arms curled almost protectively at his side, and his mouth slightly open as if caught somewhere between explaining himself and folding under Damian’s righteous anger.

 

The camera hadn’t been able to capture the blue of his eyes. All the pixels recorded was two turquoise squares in each iris.

 

Beneath them looked like what might have been tears.

 

_A boy crying in the gutter over Batman._

_The one not even the World’s Greatest Detective saw coming._

 

Bruce knelt down and unfolded the paper to see the rest of the story. The photo was cited as ‘leaked GCPD footage’ which connected some dots about where they were and who the other people in the frame might be. The article itself was short. No sensationalism. No drama. Just a stark black and white rendering of events which painted Superman in a brutally poor light. He knew who wrote it before his eyes found the signature printed at the end of the article. Clark J, Kent.

 

He raked his hand through his hair knowing he should be angry about that. Knowing he should feel hurt. He didn’t. He just felt like he’d failed all over again.

 

“Clark…”


	47. Chapter 47

Perry liked the article. Of course he did. The Daily Planet were the ones that broke the story and it was a _big_ story. Once the tapes went viral it was all anyone could talk about. Superman was the Batman copycat. Bruce Wayne’s son had ripped Superman to shreds for stealing the batsuit. And – for those that stayed watching the tape to the end – Superman broke down after admitting that he cared about Bruce Wayne and his family.

 

It was a small mercy that the tapes cut off before Bullock sat down beside him and comforted him in no uncertain terms about his relationship, if that was what you could call it. While many people were now speculating much the same thing there was still a little grey area. Room for Bruce to declare that they were merely close acquaintances and nothing more.

 

Bruce deserved that much. Bruce deserved a lot more than that.

 

But that was all Clark could give him.

 

After he found out the footage of what happened on the GCPD had been leaked – the female cop’s tape not Bullock’s – he’d done the only thing in his power to do. He had published the story first and made sure to emphasise Superman’s fault while keeping the suggestions at a deeper relationship with Batman and Superman and the family out of the spotlight.

 

Dick, Damian, and Alfred needed whatever protection from the press they could get. They needed blame to fall where it belonged; onto Superman’s shoulders. And Bruce… Bruce needed to have some agency in this. He needed to be able to choose what he wanted to say about them, if anything.

 

Other reporters weren’t being so kind. He needed to keep pushing. Needed to make sure his message was the loudest.

 

His second article on the topic was an exclusive interview with Superman telling the world he was sorry for what he did but considered Batman a good friend – just a friend – and a necessary part of the superhero ecosystem. His third was about the woman who released the footage who said she did not regret showing the world what had happened despite the threat it posed to her position at the GCPD. His fourth was an interview with Lex Luthor who used the incident as further evidence to substitute his claim that Superman was unstable and dangerous.

 

He’d just finished booking an interview with a phycologist to talk about this idea that Superman was crazy when Lois tapped him on the shoulder.

 

“Lois? I…”

 

“You need to stop.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

She crossed her arms. Didn’t say anything.

 

He forced a grin. “Am I getting more front pages than you for a change?”

 

She didn’t smile back. “I get that you’ve fucked up but shitting on yourself like this isn’t going to help. You need to talk to him.”

 

“I…” his eyes went wide. “I… I don’t know what you’re…”

 

“For God’s sake Smallville. Your articles?”

 

“But…” he tried to control his panic. “I… I’m just being critical of Superman. I’m…”

 

She glared at him. Not at his suit. Not at his glasses. _Him_.

 

She knew. She knew he was Superman.

 

“How long?” He whispered.

 

“From about ten seconds after seeing you for the first time. Jesus Kent, what do you take me for?”

 

“I’m sorry I…” he looked down.

 

“Look. I don’t care about that, okay. What I care about it one of my best friends is self-destructing on a colossal scale. I mean, Lex Luthor? Seriously.” He bent down to lean over him. Fixed him with a stern glare. “Talk to him.”

 

“But…”

 

“I don’t care if you have to shove a cell phone up an inmate’s arse. You got that?”

 

He blushed. “That… won’t be necessary.”

 

“Good.” She turned to leave. Stopped. “Oh, and Clark?”

 

“Y-yeah?”

 

“Do you know Elvis?”

 

He frowned. “What?”

 

“Because a ‘King’ keeps calling to tell you the bird it out of the cage.”

 

He closed his eyes. _“Shit.”_


	48. Chapter 48

The next time Bruce saw the warden he knew something was wrong. The man was smiling at him. Despite King’s escape, despite the killing, despite Bruce’s refusal to bend to the man’s intimidation… he was smiling.

 

“Good morning, Mr Wayne.”

 

He grunted. Got a fist to the gut. Cuffed as he was he had no hope of defending himself. He doubled over and breathed through the pain. Eyes locked onto the cracked concrete walkway beneath his boots. _Fuck you too._

 

“You should learn to be more polite, Mr Wayne,” the warden said as the guard who had punched him hauled him gracelessly back upright. “You’re going to need manners where you’re going.”

 

Roughly. “Where am I going?”

 

“For now?” The man leered. “Back to your cellblock. After that…” he trailed off. It was clearly something he’d practised. A performance designed to frighten and intimidate him.

 

Bruce met the man’s gaze, unimpressed.

 

The warden’s menacing grin flickered and then broke into a frustrated scowl. “Take him away.”

 

The guard shoved his shoulder and Bruce kept walking. His ankles were cuffed together and progress was slow. The warden glared at him the whole time.

 

“He doesn’t like you very much,” the guard said once they were out of sight and heading towards the truck that would take him from segregation back to the cellblock.

 

“I noticed.”

 

“Hey, Bats, sorry about hitting you there I… You know how it is.”

 

Low. “I know how it is.” _You fucking pig._

 

“Thanks Bats.”

 

He was loaded into the truck and watched the prison through the wire mesh windows. The last time he had seen it from this angle it had been night and each cellblock a looming square illumined by roaming spotlights. In the harsh light of day they were bleak blocks surrounded by towering fences. Old, crumbling. He could see inmates in the yards playing basketball, lifting weights, and occupying the bleachers. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two inmates pass a cigarette between them when the guard wasn’t looking.

 

It was strange… but it made him happy.

 

When he arrived back in cellblock D he got a similar reception as the first time. Prisoners threatened to kill him, to rape him, or both. The threats bounced off him. He knew most of them were empty. He knew the ones that weren’t would make themselves known soon enough. There was only two people in this cellblock who were of interest to him. Ricky and the killer.

 

Ricky he found in their cell trying to put together the room which looked like it had recently been torn apart.

 

“A shakedown?” Bruce asked as the guard finally uncuffed him and left.

 

“Yeah. They didn’t find anything. I think that made them shakedown harder.” He looked up. “Cool you’re back, by the way.”

 

“It’s only been a few days.”

 

“Yeah but, you know. ‘Round here you don’t know if someone is coming back when they get taken away.” He kept his head down. Kept cleaning.

 

“Ricky,” Bruce knelt beside him. “King isn’t dead.”

 

The boy looked at him. “Everyone says he is.”

 

“He’s not. I… got him out.”

 

Ricky stared at him in frank disbelief… and Bruce remembered what King said about some of the inmates thinking he was crazy. He could see it in Ricky’s eyes now. He trusted him but only so far as to believe that Bruce believed it… not so far as to think it was actually true.

 

“Jesus Christ, I am not insane. He’s out. He’s with Superman. He’s going to lay low for a while but he’s okay. When you get out…”

 

“I’m never getting out.”

 

“Yes you are,” Bruce growled. “Don’t start thinking that. Don’t you _dare_.”

 

“Batman I…” Ricky looked back at the paper he was gathering up off the floor. “You know I’m in for drug trafficking, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“King was petty theft. He stole tires. That’s nothing compared to…” he shook his head. “And the system wouldn’t let him leave. The system would have kept him in forever. He probably jumped out the hole in the wall, that’s what everyone’s been saying. When the wall collapsed he jumped and fell down the cliff because he knew…”

 

“No,” Bruce grabbed him. Forced him to look at him. “He’s alive. Do you hear me, Ricky? He’s alive. He’s _free_. And you’re going to be too. How long is your sentence?”

 

“Five years.”

 

“You’ll be twenty four when you get out,” Bruce told him. “You’ll have your whole fucking life ahead of you.”

 

Ricky didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know… Like. I _know_. But I can’t _see_ it sometimes. You know?”

 

Bruce did know. He bowed his head. “You’re going to get out,” he promised.

 

“King never got out. King…”

 

Bruce tapped his Justice League Communicator. As always it reopened the last communication line. Previously that had been the batcave. This time it was The Fortress of Solitude. It rung once. Twice.

 

Ricky was looking at him. “What are you d—?”

 

 _“Bruce,”_ Clark’s voice sounded small and scared. _“Hi. I wasn’t expecti—”_

 

“I need to talk to King.”

_“Oh I… Yes. Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll… get him.”_

 

A whoosh of air and there was a new voice in his ear.

_“Hey, what’s up? Wait. What are you…? Yo? Mr Batman?”_

 

Bruce took out the communicator and passed it to Ricky. “Put it in your ear.”

 

The boy looked horrified. “Dude. Gross. What is it? No. That’s been in your ear.”

 

“Just do it.”

 

“But…”

 

_“Now.”_

 

Ricky reluctantly obeyed. His eyes widened and he stared at Bruce as all sorts of realisations dawned. Finally he opened his mouth and stuttered out a word. “K-king?”

 

Whatever King said in response caused the corner of Ricky’s mouth to tug up. “Yeah… Batman just got out of seg… I don’t know why… Yeah man…”

 

Bruce decided to leave them to it. He stood, kicked a few of this things back towards his half of the cell, and left. A few inmates sneered at him as he emerged but he knew enough now to know there was nothing behind it. The heat behind their hatred for him had faded and the local cigarette maker two cells down even held up a joint rolled in toilet paper with a questioning look on his face. Bruce ideally wondered how much the man would expect a billionaire to pay for the product and walked by without a second glance.

 

He kept walking, along the balcony and down the stairs. He stopped outside cell sixty three.

 

“We need to talk.”


	49. Chapter 49

Clark wanted to talk to Bruce. He did, he really did. But he also wanted to respect Bruce’s wishes and – if the man’s abrupt tone was anything to go by – Bruce didn’t wish to speak to him right now. That was fine. It hurt, but he could live with it. He would give Bruce whatever space he needed until he’d decided to either forgive Clark or not. After everything that happened on the GCPD rooftop he wouldn’t blame Bruce if the man didn’t want anything to do with him ever again.

 

Clark watched King pace back and forth across his room, caught up in what looked like a dynamic conversation with Bruce. Clark deliberately stopped himself from listening in but couldn’t take his eyes off the boy. He was still wearing his prison nametag. It bounced against his hip where he had clipped it into the grey sweatpants Clark had lent him. It was not the only habit the boy was having a hard time breaking.

 

Clark had given him one of the smallest and simplest guest rooms in the fortress. Despite that he had caught the boy sleeping in the confined space of the closet more than once and knew Jor-El played white noise to calm him down. He also needed Clark to set a routine.

 

It was not something Clark had expected but the boy was hardwired to do things on a schedule and when left without one got anxious and angry. The animals helped. The boy’s fascination with the menagerie was no secret and rather than keep fighting it Clark decided to let the boy feed and clean the least dangerous in the collection.

 

He got exactly half an hour to eat with every meal, watched one hour of television a day, and exercised in his ‘free period’. Clark had also tried giving him some books, paper, and pens. That plan had backfired when he realised King couldn’t read or write anything more than four letters long.

 

Jor-EL – who had quickly taken an unusual liking to the boy – had since been attempting to teach him but so far all King could do was write the words ‘Blackgate’, ‘Gotham’ and ‘Batman’ over and over again. While in theory he was aware of it, he hadn’t seemed to _grasp_ that these words were made up of letters and instead tried to memorise the shapes of whole words

 

It was one of the many things that had both made King a much bigger challenge than Clark had expected… and also made him realise what Bruce seemed to have known all along. That King wasn’t the guy his tattoos suggested he was. He was a kid who had been eaten whole by a system rigged against him.

 

And despite the world of difference between them… that reminded him of Damian. Damian never had a choice in any of this. He lost his father, he lost his superhero identity, and now – by donning the Batman costume behind his back – Clark had taken from him any faith he still had in other people. It had been a string of betrayals all of which had turned the boy’s life upside down in a way which he himself didn’t have the power to change.

 

He couldn’t talk to Bruce. Bruce had made it clear he didn’t want to be spoken to, not by Clark anyway. But he hoped, maybe, that he could talk to Damian.


	50. Chapter 50

“Why did you kill Joe Chill?”

 

The answer was the one he had been expecting… and dreading.

 

“Because he killed your parents,” the boy said. “And because you wanted him dead.”

 

Bruce moved into the room and sat on the bed opposite him. Studied him.

 

The boy. The new boy. The one with green eyes that watched from a distance, the one with the familiar features he couldn’t place, the one who he had been intending to speak to when Joe Chill had stopped him in the mess hall. He sat on his bed and chewed some bubble-gum. His boots were too big, hair recently cut. He looked as strangely aloof and observant as he had since he first arrived in the cellblock.

 

“Do you want some bubble-gum?”

 

“No.”

 

The boy pulled a stick out of his shirt pocket and gave it to him anyway.

 

Bruce took it. Didn’t put it in his mouth. “What’s your name?”

 

The boy looked at the bubble-gum and back to his face. His disappointment was palpable.

 

Bruce opened the packet and put the bubble-gum in his mouth. “Your name?”

 

“Sam.”

 

 “You killed him for me, Sam.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“Yes.” A pause. “And because I wanted to know.”

 

“To know what?”

 

“If you would feel better if he were dead.” Sam tilted his head. “Do you?”

 

Bruce studied him for a long time. “I don’t know.”

 

It was the truth. He didn’t know how he felt about Joe Chill’s death. He had been so focused on the mission to save King the discovery of his parents’ killer and his demise had been pushed to the back of his brain. Not forgotten about but not acknowledged either.

 

“Does it make you happy?” The boy asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Sad?”

 

“No.”

 

Sam pursed his lips. “What about angry?”

 

Bruce didn’t take his eyes off him. “Perhaps.”

 

“Why? Did you want to kill him?”

 

Again. “Perhaps.”

 

“Would you have killed him? If I hadn’t touched him… would you have killed him?”

 

“I don’t know.” Bruce leant forward. The kid was nothing like Ricky or even King. He was a criminal. He was a killer. He was, it seemed, mentally unstable. If he had met him when he first came to prison he would have walked right by. Another bad guy among many. Now…

 

“You knew who I was when you came into the prison. You looked right at me when you walked in the door.”

 

“Yes. I tracked you down.”

 

For a moment Bruce saw Tim standing on Wayne Manor doorstep with evidence that he was Batman clutched to his chest. _“I tracked you down.”_

 

He pushed that thought aside. Focused on the boy in front of him. “What do you mean?”

 

“I found out what prison you were in. I got transferred.”

 

Transferred. He’d been in another prison before this one. That would explain how he seemed comfortable in the routine but not comfortable in _this_ routine. But the statement raised more questions than it answered. How did he find out what prison he was in? Why? How did he manage to dictate to the state where he would be transferred to?

 

Bruce decided to work through the questions backwards. “How?”

 

“I said… family matters. They always let you transfer where you want for family when you’re young.”

 

“Why did you want to meet me?”

 

“Don’t you know?”

 

He looked at him. Those eyes. The shape of his cheeks. His mouth. “Do I know you?”

 

“No. We’ve never met before.”

 

“You look like someone…” _Family Matters_. He compared the boy to everyone he knew in Gotham. Both the good guys… and the bad. His eyes were a darker green than Ivy’s. Face sharper than Penguin’s. His mouth too small to remind him of the Joker. But the distinct nagging recognition didn’t go away.

 

He didn’t know this boy but he knew someone who looked like him. Someone who lived in Gotham. Someone who he met as Batman… and then he saw it.

 

He lurched to his feet.

 

The boy’s smile was almost shy. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you? I… I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I was scared.”

 

“You killed Chill because…?”

 

“I told you. I wanted to know if you would feel better once he was dead.”

 

“Why?” Bruce pressed. _“Why?!”_

 

The boy climbed off his bed and looked at Bruce. The same observant stare as before. “Because I wanted to know if _I_ would feel better once _you_ were dead.”

 

He didn’t remind him of Tim anymore. Instead a new more frightening comparison snaked unwelcome across his brain. Damian. _The son._

 

“You killed my dad, Batman. He wasn’t even that bad. He was only a little bit bad, and you killed him.” He brought one foot up. Pulled a screw driver from his oversized boot.

 

Bruce raised his fists. They were heavy. Too heavy. That didn’t make sense. Why would…? _The bubble-gum._

 

He spat it onto the floor. “What the fuck is in…?”

 

“Heroin,” Sam said easily. “It’s harder to get than cocaine but it makes you floppy not fighty so…” he stepped forward.

 

Bruce tried to tap his ear – to call for Clark – but his communicator was gone. He’d given it to Ricky. And it didn’t matter anyway. Clark wouldn’t answer. He would fall and fall and fall into the city but Clark wouldn’t come to save him when he called. He loved Clark and Clark loved him but sometimes Clark wasn’t there to catch him. And that wasn’t Clark’s fault. It was his fault. All of this was his fault. If he hadn’t killed that man he could be at home kissing Clark right now.

 

Kissing him like he kissed him in the yard.

 

Sam lifted the screwdriver.

 

Bruce attacked.


	51. Chapter 51

Clark was in Metropolis.

 

He sat on his sofa, a half-finished box of Mongolian beef sitting abandoned on the coffee table in front of it. Beside it was a receipt for a different takeout meal dated two weeks ago. Beside that another receipt for a takeout meal dated to weeks before that.

 

How long has it been since he was here? _Really_ here? For months he had been occupying Bruce’s bed and now he was spending more time picking up after King in The Fortress of Solitude. His apartment felt more like a hotel than a home.

 

His phone buzzed against his thigh. He waited, hoping it was just a text so he wouldn’t have to answer it. No luck. It buzzed a second time, then a third. With a sigh he pulled it from his pocket, swiped to answer, and pressed it against his ear.

 

“Hello. This is Clark Kent.”

 

 _“Clark,”_ Dick’s voice sounded distant and distorted. _“I… um… I don’t know how to say this.”_

 

He sat up and rubbed his brow. “You don’t have to say anything Dick I... I’m sorry. With Batman and Damian. I… I tried to apologise but…”

 

_“Bruce is in hospital.”_

 

Clark’s words caught in his throat. _Oh please God no…_

 

_“Hello? Clark? Are you still there? He hasn’t woken up yet but I thought you should…”_

 

“Which hospital?” He rasped.

 

_“St Margret. North side. It…”_

 

He was there. He didn’t remember leaving the bedroom, or flying across the span of land between Metropolis and Gotham, or even the wind speeds which must have ripped his regular clothes from his body. All he knew was he was there, as Superman, in front of the hospital still holding his phone to his ear as the sound of a sonic boom echoed like thunder behind him.

 

_“What was…? Clark? Where are you? Are you…?”_

 

He dropped his phone and walked through the main door. Every step was slow and heavy, weighed down by the terror of what he might find.

 

Patients, doctors, and nurses all stopped and stared at him as he walked in. A child in a wheelchair pointed. “Superman! Look, mum! It’s Superman!” But beyond them, through the walls and the beeping machines, Clark had found who he was looking for.

 

He walked stiffly through the hallway, flew up a stairwell, and drew to a stop outside room 231. Two stunned looking prison guards stared at him as if he were a ghost.

 

“Move aside, please.”

 

“S-Super…?”

 

He pushed by them without another word.

 

The room was simple. White walls. Tiled floor. A single bed sat in the very centre of the square space. Inside it was Bruce.

 

His eyes were closed, his cheeks gaunt.

 

Clark waked over and gently touched the roughness of his cheek. “Hey,” he whispered.

 

Bruce didn’t open his eyes. There was a bandage on the side of his neck. Clark looked through it… and immediately wished he hadn’t. The cut extended from under his jaw to his jugular, held together by a series of brutal black stiches. Scanning the rest of his body Clark saw a number of other stab wounds. His shoulder, his forearm, his calf…

 

“Superman.” One of the guards was standing in the door. He gripped his gun with nervous twitchy fingers. “He’s a, um, prisoner of the state. You can’t be in here.”

 

Clark glared at him. Felt his eyes heat.

 

“I… I mean… I… I’m sorry.” The man retreated quickly.

 

And just like that he was alone with Bruce.

 

Alone for the first time since he’d hung up on him on the edge of the solar system.

 

He turned back to him. Somehow, despite the wounds, despite his freshly hollowed cheeks, and despite his slow shallow breathing… he was still beautiful.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said and ran his hand down Bruce’s cheek. “I’m so so sorry.” The way he said the words were different from the way he had said them before. He didn’t sound guilty. He didn’t _feel_ guilty. He felt… like he was being honest. He was sorry. He was sorry all this happened to them, he was sorry he’d been too late to save him, he was sorry… not because he had done anything wrong… but because everything was not as it should be.


	52. Chapter 52

Bruce woke in fits and starts, his awareness lost somewhere between reality and dreams.

 

He was Batman, he was bleeding out on a prison floor, he was with Clark, he was fighting with Damian, he missed a baterang, his arm was a mass of blood, he was punching Sam, he was punching a man with Sam’s murky green eyes, he was laughing for no reason he could understand, Ricky was being held back by guards, King was jumping out the hole in his cell wall and falling down the cliffs into the ocean below, he was standing in the prison yard screaming at a blank sheet of paper, Dick was in the hallway arguing with someone, Alfred was wearing the batsuit, Clark was wearing the batsuit, Damian was wearing the basuit, he was wearing orange, he was being stitched up by an angry Alfred… no… a doctor… his father. He was being walked down a street by his father, the man’s hand large and warm in his own. At the end of the street was his mother standing under a lamplight.

 

She smiled at him. Knelt down. Held out her arms.

 

He couldn’t hear her but he knew she was calling to him. _Bruce. Come here Bruce. Run to mummy. Come on._ But his father wouldn’t let him go. The hand, so gentle in his own, was like an anchor. Unyielding. Unrelenting. It held him back.

 

He opened his eyes to frown at that hand. It was large and far less bruised than his own. The arm beyond it was encased in blue. The shoulder festooned with a red cape. The face…

 

Clark was in a chair beside the bed, dressed as Superman, and fast asleep. He held Bruce’s hand.

 

For a moment Bruce thought he was still dreaming, but his mind couldn’t create the way Clark’s hair was falling out of its iconic kiss curl or the crease were his cheek pressed up against the spine of the chair. It was Clark. He’d come… Bruce had called and he had come. Late, maybe, but that didn’t matter now. He was here. Bruce never wanted to be away from him again.

 

And he didn’t need to be. All the reasons for their separation were gone now because he’d _done_ it. He’d held down those green eyes and this time, instead of hitting, he’d held back. Instead of killing he’d let himself be killed. He’d held back even as Sam stabbed him again and again because he knew, with the haze of drugs in his system, there was no way he could have stopped him without ending the boy’s life. And he couldn’t do that… not again… not ever again…

 

He closed his eyes, exhausted but comforted, and squeezed the hand within his own.

 

Clark jerked awake. “Bruce! Bruce, are you there? Bruce…”

 

But Bruce was already dreaming again.

 

He was Batman. Clark was Superman. They were fighting together, back to back. Then he was Superman and Clark was Batman. They were kissing, chest to chest. Then he was Bruce and Clark was Clark and there was nothing but them souring through the cosmos in a senseless tangle of limbs. At one point Bruce was a woman. At another point, Clark was. Then they both were. Then neither. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. All that mattered was them and the swirl of life in and around them.

 

He saw all the things they’d done, all the crazy impossible things, and all the things that they could do. The alien invasions stopped, the people saved, the spells broken… and there in the middle of it all he saw him and Clark together celebrating Damian’s twentieth birthday.

 

And that was when he knew he had to die.


	53. Chapter 53

Damian, Alfred, and Dick arrived at twenty past two the following day. The guards made a feeble attempt to stop them which ended the moment Clark stepped out to usher them inside.

 

Alfred didn’t say a word as he walked into the room and took up the abandoned seat beside the bed. The look on his face was telling though. A mix of guilt, grief, and shame that burned through his usual dignified mask. Dick, on contrast, took one look at Bruce and immediately started hitting the nurse button and loudly demanding to know what was going on. Damain, for his part, stood by the door and glared at Clark as if he were the one to do this to Bruce.

 

Clark decided it would be best to give them some space and slipped quietly out into the hall just as a terrified looking nurse stepped in.

 

He wandered without purpose or direction through the hospital until he arrived in the children’s cancer ward. There he stopped, flew the kids around their beds, and let them try on his cape. He had a suspicion the action comforted him more than it did them. It didn’t matter. There was something nice about floating in the air with giggling children sitting on his shoulders. Something familiar. Something so far removed from Bruce, prison, and everything that had happened to them that it was almost hard to imagine Bruce was lying in a bed with his throat stitched closed.

 

“You really are the best person in the world aren’t you?”

 

He looked up. Dick leant against the door, watching him.

 

“Hey kids, I got to go now.”

 

There was a chorus of ‘awww’s and a few cries of ‘no’s. One girl wrapped all her limbs around his arm and hung on like a monkey. It took almost fifteen minutes to untangle himself and finally settle them back into their beds. When he finally walked out of the ward beside Dick the man was shaking his head.

 

“I never thought Bruce would fall for someone like you. Seriously. Bad girls. That’s what I thought he liked. Bad girls in black jumpsuits. But here you are.”

 

They found an isolated spot in the hall and stopped. “What did you want, Dick?”

 

“Honestly? Not sure. Just… to say sorry I guess. You have literally been the hero during all of this and I know Damian is mad at you right now but…”

 

“Aren’t you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Angry at me?”

 

Dick’s smile was rueful. “I am not the world’s greatest detective. Not close. But, you know, I am not an idiot either and I know Alfred better than anyone, except maybe Bruce. I might be wrong but I have an idea that the whole you-as-Batman idea might just be his. Am I right?”

 

Clark didn’t say anything.

 

“Thought so.” Dick scratched the back of his neck. “But, you know, even if it was your idea I wouldn’t care that much. You being Batman… yeah… it’s weird… but I see the sense in it. I do. And, really, it was kind of a relief. Here I was thinking I would have to be the one to suit up but, nope, you showed up and saved the day. Just like you always do.” He cocked his head to the side. “And you came here when I called. Really, if I was even a little bit pissed at you that would have wiped it away.”

 

“Dick,” Clark said firmly. “About Bruce and I…”

 

“No. It’s okay. I understand. I’m sorry I was a little bitchy about it at first. It just came as a surprise. But, seriously, I’m cool with it. Heck, I am more than cool. I _get_ it.”

 

“No. You don’t.”

 

“Hey it’s…”

 

“We’re not together.”

 

Dick looked taken aback. “Huh?”

 

“It’s…”

 

“Don’t you love him?”

 

“No. I mean, yes. I do but…”

 

“Doesn’t he love you?”

 

Clark felt his throat tighten. “I… I think he does.”

 

“You think?”

 

“He told me he does.”

 

“And what? You don’t believe him?”

 

“No. No, he’s never lied to me I…” he sucked in a breath. “The truth is I don’t think either of us realised what we had until he went away. I didn’t fall in love with him flying over that prison but I sure as hell realised that was what I was feeling there.”

 

“Oh…” Dick was looking at him, wide eyed. “Oh shit. That’s… Well, I’ll be honest, that’s shit.”

 

“You can say that again.”

 

“But… you know… it’s also kinda beautiful.”

 

Clark sent him a look.

 

“Hey hey,” Dick held up his hands. “I’m a romantic, okay. Juliet looked down on Romeo but couldn’t touch him too.”

 

Clark sucked in his cheek. Didn’t remind Dick that Romeo had also died. Didn’t want to remind himself of that fact.

 

“Anyway,” Dick went on. “I just wanted to say I am cool with you guys and… thanks for everything you’ve done. I know this has been a pretty shit thing but… you’ve made it better. You really have, no matter what Damian says right now.” A look. “As far as I am concerned, you’re family. Okay?”

 

“I…” Clark blinked. Wow. “Dick that’s… thank you. I…”

 

“I thought you should know that.”

 

“That’s why you came to find me?”

 

“Well, no.” The man’s grin was coy. “Bruce hasn’t seen Damian since he went inside. Alfred and I thought we’d give them their space for a bit.”

 

Clark bowed his head and nodded. “Yes that…” Froze. “Wait. Did you say _Bruce_ hasn’t seen Damian?”

 

Dick frowned. “Yeah…”

 

“So he’s awake?”

 

“Yeah. He’s groggy but…”

 

“I…” Clark fought back the urge to fly to him as fast as he could. “How long do you think Damian will be?”

 

“Well. It’s been twenty minutes. I think…”

 

That was all he needed. In an instant he was gone and standing outside the room with the two guards who weren’t even pretending to try and stop people coming in and out of the room anymore.

 

In the room Damian was leaning on the edge of Bruce bed. He was smiling. A big _victorious_ smile. “Yes, father. Yes I…” He stopped as he saw Clark.

 

Bruce looked up.

 

And Clark saw those silvery blue eyes fix onto him the way they did when he flew into the prison yard. “Clark…”

 

“Bruce I…” he took a step into the room. Hesitated. Looked at Damian.

 

The boy scowled and turned to give Bruce one more meaningful look. Bruce returned it. A silent confirmation. Without a word Damian stood, nodded, and left the room at a brisk trot.

 

Clark waited until he was well and truly gone before slowly advancing towards the bed. “Hey…”

 

“Clark,” Bruce’s voice was a dull rasp, damaged by the gash across his jugular. “Hey.”

 

Clark moved to take up Damian’s place at his side. Knelt so they were on the same level.

 

One second passed. Then two.

 

Bruce. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

 

He snorted and then grinned. “That’s my line.”

 

Bruce laughed, the sound fragile and pained. The sight though… no matter how beautiful he had been when asleep it was a pale comparison to the Bruce he could see now. Lines fanned out from the corner of his eyes, cheeks creased to make room for his teeth.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he said the words without thinking. Couldn’t find it within himself to regret them.

 

Bruce’s smile changed… but didn’t go away. “I dreamt we were cosmic lesbians,” he rasped.

 

Clark blinked. “Are you o—?”

 

“Will you kiss me?”

 

“K-kay?” He stuttered to a stop. His heart felt eight times its normal size in his chest. A massive hammering drum that gushed blood too fast through his ears. “I… I mean… I… well…”

 

Bruce’s smile slipped. A flicker of hesitation danced across his eyes.

 

That tugged Clark forward like a fish on a hook. In an instant they were kissing and it was everything their kiss in the prison yard had been and more. At one point he realised this was probably hurting Bruce’s neck and tried to pull back but then Bruce’s hands were in his hair – both of them, he’d slipped his handcuff – and they were kissing harder, deeper.

 

“Clark…” Bruce broke with a gasp. “I need you to do something for me.”

 

“Anything. Anything Bruce I…”

 

“Stay with King.” His eyes were bright. Desperate, almost. “Stay in the fortress with King for the next few days. Don’t come out. No matter what happens don’t come out. And don’t open any emails, or any news. Don’t look at anything or talk to anyone. Just… stay there. Just for a few days.”

 

Clark was frowning. “Why? What’s going on?”

 

“Trust me,” he rasped. “Please. It’s going to be okay.” He slumped back into his bed and smiled up at him. When he spoke there was a strange sad wonder in his voice. “It’s all going to be okay.”


	54. Chapter 54

The plan was simple.

 

But dangerous.

 

He didn’t tell Damian exactly how dangerous it was. He didn’t tell him that the reason why he had asked him and not Alfred, Dick, or Clark was because he knew the others would all refuse. He didn’t tell him that, in his current state, there was a chance he would not wake up at all. A good chance. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t keep doing this to his family. He couldn’t keep doing this to Clark. Either he was going to wake up with them or he was going to die. No matter what it would be better than what was happening now.

 

“I love you,” he rasped, hugging Damian’s broad bony shoulders close.

 

“I know, father.”

 

He flinched as he felt the needle slide into his elbow. A sting followed by a terrifying numbness that started the moment Damian compressed the plunger and crept slowly up his limb. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Damian had just said ‘I know’. He knew he loved him. He knew he cared. After everything that happened that was more than Bruce could possibly ask for.

 

The needle withdrew and Damian leant closer into the embrace.

 

“Go,” Bruce whispered, into his hair. “Before… before it happens. Before Alfred checks on us. _Go_.”

 

He felt Damian nod and then the boy was untangling himself from Bruce’s limbs. He stepped away from the bed, picked up his school bag, and paused by the door to give Bruce one more long look. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes were alight. Happy.

 

Then he was gone.

 

Bruce slumped back into the bed and breathed through the agony slowly working its way through his body. If he screamed or writhed there was a chance however small that the doctors would figure out what was happening. They would know Damian drugged him. They would know what he was trying to do. They would stop him.

 

So he breathed and thought about Damian, Alfred, and Dick. He thought about Ricky, King, and even Sam. But, most of all, he thought about Clark. The man who had somehow carried him through this whole ordeal without barely touching him. The man he hadn’t realised he loved until he dropped out of the clouds and kissed him in the prison yard.

 

He hoped, even if he did die, Clark would stay a part of his family. He hoped they would welcome him. He hoped he would be happy.

 

Someone stepped into the room.

 

At first Bruce thought it was Damian coming back.

 

He was wrong.

 

It was the warden followed closely by the two guards that had been on duty by his door. They looked exhausted. The warden was angry.

 

“Who did it?” he snapped at he seized hold of the foot of the bed. “Who _stabbed_ you?”

 

Bruce forced his lips into a snarl. “Go to hell.”

 

The man’s eyes narrowed.

 

Bruce knew why he wanted Sam. It wasn’t to rehabilitate him, punish him, or even move him. It was for the press. He wanted a fall guy. A scapegoat he could pin the blame on. _This is who stabbed Batman. This is the man. The **villain**._ Sam didn’t deserve that. Sam was… _him_. Sam was Bruce if his life had unfolded just a little bit differently. Sam wasn’t sane or safe or fit for society. Not right now. But he wasn’t bad either. Just like Ricky or King. Just like him.

 

The pain of the drug was getting worse… but also easier. He didn’t know if he had the energy to scream anymore, or the strength to writhe. He would be asleep soon. Then all of this would be over.

 

At a gesture from the warden the guards left. The man picked up Bruce’s chart and flicked through it once before putting it back. “You know who did it. There are bruises on your knuckles. You fought back. You _know_.”

 

Bruce didn’t say anything.

 

“Well, I know something too. Something you might be interested to hear.” He dropped his voice into a raspy stage whisper. “You’re not going back to Blackgate.”

 

Bruce’s eyes snapped to his face.

 

The warden grinned, glad to have finally stolen his attention. “You are a valuable commodity. Every prison wants you. And, quite frankly, you have not been as profitable as I hoped in Blackgate.”

 

“Profitable?”

 

The man gave him a look.

 

“You want me to pay you,” Bruce croaked.

 

“You did pay me, for your black boy. I thought that would be the start of something good between us. Something…”

 

“Profitable.” Bruce guessed.

 

His smile grew… “Yes.” …and then vanished. “But that is not what has happened. I have done everything in my power to encourage you. You’ve had no phone calls, you’ve been underfed, I even delayed your mail…”

 

Bruce’s throat contracted. “ _You_ did that?”

 

“You’re surprised?”

 

“I ate the same as everyone in the cellblock.”  


“Well, it would look strange if it were just you.”

 

A sickening anger washed through him. An anger he didn’t have the energy to respond to. He could barely sit up. Barely breathe. _This is happening too fast. I am too weak. I shouldn’t be…_ He took in a slow breath. _Easy. Take it easy._

 

“I’m transferring you out,” the warden hissed close to his ear. “Perhaps I’ll even send you to Arkham. I could do it. Everyone’s been saying it. _Everyone_. You talk to yourself. You’re mad. All I have to do is sign a piece of paper and you’re theirs. There are doctors who would give anything to have _The Batman_ in their care. And there are others in Arkham who I am sure would be happy to see you.”

 

“I can tell you,” Bruce croaked. “I can tell you something you don’t know.”

 

The man’s grin widened. “Who stabbed you? Tell me and I will make sure your new prison is… _comfortable_.”

 

“I’m not mad,” Bruce barely got the words out.

 

“I don’t care. Who stab—”

 

“Superman,” Bruce rasped. “I was talking to Superman.” He looked at the warden. Could see that he’d caught the man’s attention. Of course he had. By now the world would know that Superman had come to see Batman in hospital. “He loves me,” Bruce said softly. “And I love him.”

 

“You…”

 

“I talk to him… and he _listens_.” He let those words sink in. “Do you want to know what I’ve told him about you?”

 

The man was backing away from the bedside now. “You… no you…”

 

“You sold me a child to rape. You put me in solitary without due cause. You told the press an escaped criminal died.” He grinned. “And now you’ve confessed even more. I wonder… is he listening now?”

 

The warden looked around as if terrified Superman would burst in through the walls. He was a coward. Good.

 

“I am going to die,” Bruce told him. “And Superman is going to be angry.” He could barely keep his eyes open but he needed to. For this. “I can tell you… something you don’t know… you should resign. Quit before Superman throws you into one of your cells.” He showed his teeth. “Run and hide you coward. Or stay. I would prefer that.”

 

“You’re a liar,” the man snarled. “A criminal! Superman wouldn’t harm me! He wouldn’t…”

 

Bruce decided he didn’t need to hear what the man had to say. He closed his eyes and sucked in one more breath. Then another. And another. Each one was weaker. Each one was lighter. Each one was more painful... until it wasn't. Almost all at once he felt his body go numb. No more pain. No more breaths. No more life. In the fleeting moment before the darkness Bruce thought of the warden, face red with rage. He wanted to smile. If he was dying then at least he was taking down one more bad guy as he did it.

 

Clark would be proud.


	55. Chapter 55

 

The thing about The Fortress of Solitude was that it blocked his super hearing. When all the shields were up, when all the walls were closed, when the whole structure was in lock down… he couldn’t hear anything. Not the people partying in Argentina. Not the baby crying in Greece. Not the bombs dropping on Syria.

 

The silence after so much noise was always jarring… but also a relief. It was like a weight he didn’t know he had been carrying was lifted off his shoulders. Except this time it was different.

 

This time, instead of relief and guilt, he felt fear. This time, instead of feeling free he felt trapped. He felt isolated. He felt unsure.

 

But this is what Bruce asked him to do… and he would do anything for Bruce.

 

For the first twenty four hours he worked. There was a lot of data that needed to be catalogued. A lot of mission reports he needed to update. He shared his meals with King and sat with him while he slowly but surely relearnt the alphabet.

 

He did the same on the second day.

 

On the third day, while King was gulping down the Kryptonian food with gusto, Clark saw his arm.

 

There was spots of blood on his sleeve. Old… and fresh.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Your arm.”

 

“Oh yeah,” King grinned and worked up his sleeve. “I did it myself.”

 

“Did wh—?” and then Clark saw it.

 

There was a new tattoo on King’s arm. It was raised and rimmed with red, the edges slightly lopsided, and the inside crudely coloured in. A bat symbol. Right where his swastika once was.

 

“I got to fix it up a little,” King said. “But I think it’s good.”

 

“How did you…?”

 

“And I figure, now that I’m officially dead and all, I got to change my tats. They take pictures of them in prison so they can ID you. Plus, Mr Batman always hated this one so, the way I figure it, it can go first. What ya’ think?”

 

Clark didn’t know what to think. “Where did you get a tattoo gun?”

 

Proudly. “I made it.”

 

“You _made_ it?”

 

“Yeah. You just need a pen and a…”

 

“Jor-El!”

 

“Yes, my son.”

 

“Scan King for infections.”

 

The AI sounded more than a little pissed off. “I sterilised all materials used in the procedure.”

 

“You sterilised the homemade tattoo gun?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s fine,” King said. “Seriously. It’s barely bleeding.” He grinned. “Do you like it?”

 

“It’s…” Clark struggled to find the words. “A big improvement.”

 

“I know, right? Bats are so hard to do though. I got to do something easier for the others.”

 

“Maybe you should get someone else to do the others,” Clark suggested.

 

The boy’s eyes lit. “Do you want to…?”

 

“No no no. I… I mean someone _qualified_. A tattoo artist.”

 

“But,” King frowned. “Won’t qualified people rat me out?”

 

“Everyone thinks you’re dead. No one’s going to be looking for you.”

 

“But… I got crim tats. Like, Aryan brotherhood, Joker…”

 

“That’s… unfortunate but I’ll just say you’re my cousin who went off the rails for a bit.”

 

King looked uncomfortable. “Can’t I just do ‘em? Or you? You can do the ones on my back.”

 

“I don’t…”

 

“You’re probably really good. With your powers and everything. I won’t care if you screw up a little. I got a lot of skin.”

 

“King,” Clark said his name firmly. “I’m not going to tattoo you.”

 

“Please?”

 

“No I…”

 

Jor-El. “I observed the procedure. I could…”

 

“No one is tattooing anyone,” Clark snapped. “I just…” he sucked in a slow steading breath. “Look. I don’t know what is going on out there and I just need… well… I don’t know. I just need no homemade tattoos. Okay?”  
  
“My son, I am sensing an unusually high level of stress.”

 

“No I just…” he ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s nothing.”

 

King. “But…”

 

“It’s nothing.” He stood and flew stiffly out of the room. Bruce had asked this of him. He didn’t know why… and no matter how much he trusted Bruce he couldn’t help himself from worrying. What was Bruce doing? Why wouldn’t he want Clark to witness it? All the possible answers to that question gnawed at him. Some terrified him.

 

But, despite it, he’d kept his word. He’d stayed in the fortress. He’d stayed out of contact.

 

“Hey. Hi. What’s up?”

 

He looked up. While he couldn’t hear what was happening outside the fortress he could still hear what was going on within the walls. King was still sitting at the dinner table stirring sauce into his noodles. One hand was touching his ear…

 

The Justice League communicator... he’d never taken it off him. Was he talking to Bruce? Why would Bruce talk to King and not Clark? Why would Bruce ask him to stay out of contact with King and then contact King? Perhaps he hadn’t meant to. Perhaps he had tried to contact Clark. Perhaps whatever Bruce needed to do he had done.

 

Perhaps this was Bruce calling to tell him to come back.

 

He felt himself begin to smile… just as King frowned.

 

“Huh? No. Mr Batman can’t… you’re messing with me, Rick... What? No. No way… Batman doesn’t _die_ he…”

 

Clark felt the bottom drop out of his world.

 

No. Bruce wouldn’t he… he _couldn’t_ just… die.

 

In an instant Clark was at the entrance to the fortress screaming at Jor-El to open the doors. The crystal slid back with terrifying speed and the noise of the world crashed through the opening like the tide.

 

In among the Happy Birthday Song, the screaming kids, and the shrill sounds of phones ringing he heard it.

_“…what happened to Batman?”_

_“I think its suicide. He was in the hospital…”_

_“…can’t believe he’s dead.”_

 

“No!” Clark flew to Gotham faster than he ever had before. Bruce wasn’t in his room in the hospital. He wasn’t in any other room in the hospital. He wasn’t in the morgue. He turned his gaze towards Blackgate. The warden was giving a speech in front of the prison, publically resigning. Inside the inmates were in chaos. Some celebrating, some rioting. Cellblock D in comparison was oddly sombre. Ricky was in Bruce’s cell. He was talking to King.

 

“It’s all over the news, man. Everyone’s talking about it.”

 

Clark roared in frustration and checked every hospital in the city. Every morgue. Every prison. He checked the ambulances. Checked the prison buses.

 

Then he checked the manor. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps a part of him hoped this whole thing was a dream. That if he looked for Bruce in the place he used to he would find him sitting at the batcomputer or sprawled across his too big bed. He didn’t see that. He saw Damian.

 

The boy was sitting on the roof, crying.

 

_Bruce… what have you done?_

 

Clark flew down and landed on one knee beside Damian. The boy looked up, groaned, and practically fell into Clark’s arms. A desperate angry hug.

 

“I-I fucked up,” Damian rasped. “I fucked it. I…”

 

“Hey. No. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

 

“I can’t find him. I don’t know where they… What if he’s really dead? I…”

 

“Shh. No. We’ll find him. We will.” He remembered Bruce’s last words to him. “It’s all going to be okay.”


	56. Chapter 56

Bruce coughed and a white hot streak of pain raced down his neck. It felt like his throat was going to rip open. The stiches hot twists in his flesh. He swallowed down the urge to cough again and cracked open his eyelids. He expected to see the inside of a coffin. Instead he saw a woman.

 

She sat beside his bed. Short, black. A string of pearls were clamped tight around her neck.

 

His stomach sank. “Waller.”

 

Her lips thinned into a tight toothless smile. “Good morning, Mr Wayne.” She put the tablet she was reading aside. “I hope you’re comfortable.”

 

He looked around the room. It was small. Unremarkable. A concrete box spotted with vents and a sturdy steel door. His hospital bed and IV tower were jarringly out of place in the stark setting.

 

“You’re in Belle Reve,” Waller said, watching his wandering gaze. “The lowest floor. Speciality made for guests like you.”

 

His voice was little more than a breathy rasp. “Guests like me?”

 

A flat gaze. “Lead lined walls.”

 

Bruce closed his eyes. _Clark._ He would look for him. When he came out of the fortress he would look for him. But he wouldn’t find him. Perhaps worse was the idea that he _would_ find him and either destroy the world’s trust in Superman by ripping out of the prison or kill himself trying.

 

_Clark…_

 

This was not meant to happen. He was meant to die. He was meant to be buried. He was meant to be dug up and, if possible, revived. He was meant to leave Batman, prison, and Bruce Wayne behind. He was meant to return to his family... to Clark… or die.

 

That was what was meant to happen. Instead, somehow, they’d found out what he was doing. They’d transferred him, not to Arkham, but Belle Reve. The supervillain prison. The prison for those with powers and a few who didn’t need powers to be agents of mass destruction.

 

The fifteen years before him at Blackgate had seemed impossible. Crushing. The idea of serving them at Belle Reve was worse. Much worse.

 

He couldn’t do it. He _wouldn’t_.

 

“Easy, Mr Wayne,” Waller crossed her legs and leant back in her chair. “You wouldn’t want to pull any stiches.”

 

“Why now?” He snarled. “Why not before?”

 

“I was going to ask you the same question.” She studied him. “I went to your hearing, Mr Wayne. I saw you then. You were… defeated. You wanted to be locked away. You wanted it to end. Now?” Her eyes were dark. Penetrating.

 

Bruce tested his restraints. A handcuff on each wrist. Similar cuffs on his ankles.

 

She smiled. “Now things are different. You want to fight. You want to escape. You almost did. You had the idiots at the hospital fooled. They declared you dead. They were going to send you to the morgue. They would have sent you to your family plot. Then what? Would your butler have dug you up? Your sons? Superman?”

 

Bruce glared at her.

 

“He made quite the scene when you were in the hospital.” She leant closer. “And then you told Clayton Grey that you loved him… and he loved you.”

 

“That’s none of your business.”

 

“It is my business, Mr Wayne. My business is superhumans and Superman is a very special superhuman.”

 

“You can’t use me against him,” he snarled.

 

“Believe it or not, that was not my intension.” She threaded her fingers together. “I don’t want Superman, Mr Wayne. I want _you_. You were no use to me when you wanted to be in prison. Now… now I think we can make a deal.”

 

“I’m not going to work for you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You kill.”

 

Softly. “So do you.”

 

“No,” he whispered. “No I won’t. Not again. Not ever…” He thought of Sam. He thought of the blade of the screwdriver cutting into him again and again as his limbs sagged under their own weight. He thought of that eerily familiar face grimacing as if he was the one being killed, not the one doing the killing.

 

He could have stopped it. He could have killed him.

 

But, in that moment, he would rather have died.

 

The part of him that enjoyed hurting others, that thrilled at the hunt, that would have ended Sam’s life not just to save himself but to feel that power… that part of him would never be gone. But now he knew it. Now he _owned_ it. Now he was stronger than it.

 

And now all he wanted was to be with the people he loved.

 

“I don’t need you to kill, Mr Wayne. I have plenty of killers much better at it than you. What I want is The Batman.” She stood, dusted herself off, and picked up her tablet “One year off your sentence for every successful mission. You could be back with your family in a year.”

 

He glared.

 

“Think about it.”

 

She walked to the door and left without a backward glance.


	57. Chapter 57

He never found Bruce.

 

Bruce found him.

 

Three and a half weeks after Bruce vanished from the hospital an alien warlord attacked Central City. The whos and the whys weren’t important. At least, not to him. After three and a half weeks of fear, grief, and frantic searching the last thing he cared about were the motives of some forked tongue space villain.

 

It was the family who publically declared Bruce dead. Once Damian had told Alfred what he had done there was little else they could do, and time was of the essence. Assuming he survived the dose in his weakened state, Bruce would only remain unconscious for a few days. But Bruce had disappeared from the hospital and no one seemed to know where he had been taken. Not the doctors, not the nurses, and not even the prison staff. Alfred had done the only thing he could. He told everyone Bruce dead, demanded the body be buried in the family plot, and publically stated that they did not consent to an autopsy or any organ donation. The press took the story and ran with it… but still no one could find Bruce.

 

Not knowing where he was, what had happened, or if he was alive or dead was torture.

 

That pain, more than anything else, cemented his place in the family. Damian, Dick, and Alfred all accepted him into the household without question. Tim was more suspicious at first but quickly came around when he realised Clark was as determined to find Bruce as he was. Jason was… well… Jason. He showed up for dinner one night without warning – the first time anyone had seen or heard from him since this whole ordeal began – and left without a word the following day. But, despite that, the manor felt more like home than anywhere else now. The family more _his_.

 

If only the family were whole.

 

He punched through the small black ships, let the energy blasts shooting from their laser guns bounce off his chest, and ripped reptilian pilots out of crashing planes. Around him the battle raged.

 

It was a mess. The Justice League was holding them off from the air while various other independent heroes fought those that slipped through the barricade. A tangle of police offers, fire fighters, and soldiers stormed the streets and civilians fled in every direction.

 

Lois and Jimmy were in the middle of it rigged with GoPros and a remote satellite dish. Of course they were.

 

He was about to dive down and move them to a safer place… Then he saw it, out the corner of his eye. A flurry of black pronged wings swooping between the buildings. He turned his head…

 

“Superman!” Diana screamed. “A new wave! North!”

 

He hesitated.

 

“Superman!”

 

He turned back towards the battle. A line of ships were approaching in a tight arrowhead formation. He dove towards them and ripped the guns off the turrets. Knocked out of balance one ship spiralled down and smashed through the side of a building before pulling up and making a hasty retreat towards the mothership. Clark stared at the wreckage. Were there people in there? No. This area should have been evacuated. There shouldn’t be…

 

He saw a girl clambering up through the rubble. She was already mattered with blood and dust, her clothes grey from powdered cement. As he watched the wall above her began to teeter… and then fall.

 

He raced in, caught the wall, and…

 

…and then Batman was beside him. Just like always. He climbed around Clark and pulled the girl out of the wreckage as Clark stopped the structure from collapsing on top of them. Clark waited until they were clear before dropping the building and flying out onto the street. The girl was hugging what could only be her parents. Batman was gone.

 

“Superman!” He saw Diana brandish her sword as she flew by. “They’re in retreat!”

 

A motley collection of zealous followed her whooping in delight and shooting bolts of rainbow light as they chased the invaders up into the clouds. He should follow. He didn’t. He had to find…

 

“Clark.”

 

The word was spoken softly. So softly the only people who would be able to hear it were him and the person who had spoken.

 

He turned his head. Batman stood in the middle of the street, cape billowing back behind him. He was watching Clark. Watching him and standing in a way Clark knew… he knew even before the man pushed off his lead lined cowl.

 

_Bruce._

 

In an instant he was kissing him.

 

He didn’t care how it had happened. He didn’t care if the aliens had somehow created a hole in time or if some interdimensional rift had opened up. All he cared about was the man in his arms kissing him back as if he needed this as much as Clark. As if he had been as lost, as confused, as pathetically wretchedly _heartbroken_ as Clark these last weeks.

 

“God I…”

 

“I know,” Bruce rasped and then they were kissing some more.

 

It wasn’t pretty. Their lips were dry, cheeks rough. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the heat of his breath, the taste of his lips, and the strength of his body pressing up against his. Close. Close in a way they hadn’t been since…

 

Someone nearby cleared their throat.

 

They looked up.

 

A small collection of oddly dressed heroes stood nearby… except. That was King Shark… and that was Deadshot... and that was…

 

Harley grinned. “ _Gooolllllyyy_. Hero-hood sure does have its perks, am I right?”

 

Deadshot. “Can we get out of here now? Or do we really have to stay for the Bat’s conjugal?”

 

King Shark growled.

 

The Suicide Squad. He was looking at the Suicide Squad. But that meant… Clark reached up and stroked the back of Bruce’s neck. He felt the implant there. His heart squeezed. “Bruce…” He’d joined the squad. He’d let Waller put one of her bombs in him.

 

“It’s okay,” Bruce said and leant his forehead against Clark’s. “I’m going to be okay. I promise.”

 

“She’ll kill you.”

 

“No. She won’t. She’s playing the long game. She knows I’m Justice League. She knows I’m…” he looked him in the eyes, “with you. When I get out…”

 

“Get out? So you’re still in prison. You…” he sucked in a breath. “Belle Reve,” It had to be. That’s where the squad recruited from. He’d looked there but he hadn’t found him… but the building was sitting on a lead minefield. “God Bruce. All the papers said you’d died. Damian was convinced he’d killed you. Alfred has the lawyers and I… God I…”

 

“I’m fine,” Bruce breathed back. “It’s all going to be fine.”

 

“But…”

 

He kissed him. Hot, passionate, open. “I’ll be home soon. I _promise_. Please tell the others I love them. They can send me mail. I… I will too… I’m going to get paper soon… it’s harder now. Belle Reve is a supermax prison and we’re in lock down most of the time but they give me equipment to train on and let me design and build my gear so…”

 

Deadshot. “Hey! Love birds! We’re on a schedule. Break it up before I see if you’re really bulletproof!”

 

“It’s not going to be long,” Bruce whispered frantically. “Twelve months. Less. I… I can do it. I’m doing the missions. Killing the time. I’m coming home, Clark. I…”

 

“You said you were with me,” Clark said softly.

 

He looked at him in the eye. His gaze a startling vivid silver. “I did.”

 

“Wayne!”

 

The rest of the Suicide Squad was piling into an army helicopter. Waller was standing on the deck glaring at them. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get over here before I blow your head off!”

 

“I have to go,” Bruce whispered. “Is King okay? Ricky? What about the family? Tell them all I love them. Tell them…”

 

“…you’re coming home,” Clark finished for him. “I will.” He stroked the side of his face. “God I thought you were dead.”

 

“So did I.”

 

“Ten seconds!”

 

Bruce grimaced, pushed one more frantic kiss on his lips, and whirled around to stride back towards the helicopter. He pulled his cowl back on as he climbed in beside the others, ignoring Harley’s wolf whistle and Waller’s disapproving glare. Clark stayed rooted to the spot as the helicopter lifted off the ground and veered back over the city… heading back to Belle Reve.

 

Once it was out of sight he lay back and floated.

 

_Bruce was alive… and he was coming home._


	58. Chapter 58

Bruce’s ears were ringing.

 

His vision blurred.

 

His whole body a mess of pain.

 

“Well…” Harley’s face swam into focus. She was on the ground beside him, mallet loosely held in her hand, and black gore splashed across the patchwork jester costume. “That went well. Better than the last time we fought demons anyway. Less tentacles.”

 

Deadshot’s voice rung out across the field. “Who’s still alive?!”

 

Killer Frost made some noise. So did Harley, El Diablo, and Black Manta. Black Spider and Mad Dog were silent.

 

“Well,” Deadshot sounded pleased. “Five out of eight ain’t bad.”

 

“Oh goodie.” Harley sat up. “I always hated Spider. Wait? New kid’s dead? Already? Aw. I liked him. He had a funny accent. Called me beau- _ta_ -ful.”

 

“Who cares about the new kid?” Black Manta rasped. “What about the _Bat_?”

 

El Diablo. “Nah, _Ese_. He got hit by one of the big ones. He’s gone.”

 

“Hey, B-man?” A finger poked him in the side. ‘You really dead?”

 

Bruce grunted and rolled over. Blinked up at the sky.

 

“He’s alive!” Harley cried and clapped her hands. “I knew he would be! No yucky demon is going to take down Batman.”

 

 _“Great,”_ Manta hissed, voice dripping in sarcasm. “For a second there I was _worried_.”

 

Deadshot was more positive. “ _Six_ out of eight. Hah. Waller should give me a raise. I want _five_ years off for every win now.”

 

Frost. “If I were leader…”

 

“If you were leader _everyone_ would be dead,” Deadshot said. “We’d probably all have slipped over and cracked our heads open on all the ice puddles you leave around.”

 

“If this thing wasn’t in my neck…”

 

“You’d do what? I could shoot you before…

 

“That’s enough!” They all fell silent as the familiar tap of heels approached. Bruce managed to focus his eyes long enough to see Waller walk through the ruined entrance to the building. “Get up. We’re moving out.”

 

“Oh come on,” Harley held out her hands. “At least tell we did good. Look, all the demons are banished and no normal people got killed thanks to B-man using himself as a human shield.”

 

Deadshot. “And only two of us died.”

 

“I’ll make sure you get chocolate milk tonight.”

 

Harley squealed with delight.

 

Deadshot looked like he was ready to get his head blown off trying to rip Waller in two. “Chocolate milk?”

 

“You lactose intolerant, Lawton?”

 

Silence.

 

“Yeah. Didn’t think so.” Waller smirked. “Move out!”

 

Bruce watched the villains slowly pick themselves up out of the rubble. Manta’s suit was battered and scraped, El Diablo’s face was smeared with blood, and Frost stiff like she’d broken a rib. Harley and Deadshot leant against each other, both painted black with demon gore.

 

They were the only two who had stayed in the squad from the time he joined a year ago. Deadshot had a two hundred year sentence he was working off. Harley had won her freedom six months ago only to come back with a brand new grand theft auto charge two weeks later. Despite everything that had happened between them both in and out of the squad… he would miss them.

 

“Well, Mr Wayne,” Waller knelt down beside him. “Sorry, but you’re going to miss out on the milk.” She pulled his cowl off and pressed something cold and hard against the back of his neck. He yelled in pain and slumped back to the ground, breathing. An envelope landed beside him.

 

Harley. “Wait. What’s happening?”

 

Deadshot. “Bats, you bastard.”

 

“Oh my God. He’s graduating isn’t he? Why didn’t you tell us you were gonna graduate?! We would have thrown a party!”

 

Bruce grabbed the envelope, headless of the mud and gore he smeared across the pristine white paper, and clutched it to his chest. He didn’t need to open it to know what was inside. Release papers.

 

He had worked so hard, fought so long… now that he had them he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He didn’t have the energy in him to do either. He just lay on ground and held them as the pain in his neck slowly eased.

 

The implant was still there. He could feel it. But the bomb had been deactivated. He was free.

 

Waller. “What are you all standing around for? Move!”

 

Frost obeyed followed by Manta and Diablo. Deadshot hesitated, his gaze locked on Bruce for a moment before he too walked out of the building. Harley ran over, fell to her knees beside him, and pushed a wet kiss onto his lips.

 

Waller. “Quinzel! To the transport!”

 

“Don’t be scared,” Harley whispered.

 

“I’m not scared of getting out,” he croaked.

 

“I know. I was talking about being fucked by Superman. I mean, wowza. I am into some kinky shit but taking it up the arse for _Superman_. No thank you. But, I guess, someone’s got to do it. Guess that’s why you’re the hero and I’m the…”

 

“Ten seconds!” Waller called.

 

Harley cocked her head. “Till you shock me or till you blow my head off?”

 

“Until I take away your chocolate milk.”

 

Harley bounced back onto her feet and scurried toward the transport. Waller followed her without a backward look.

 

Bruce lay on the ground as he listened to the trucks pull away. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was weighed down by the papers rumbled in his hand. Crushed under the weight of his own freedom. It was only fourteen months. Three in Blackgate, the rest in Belle Reve. But, somehow, it felt longer.

 

So much longer.

 

And now it was over.

 

Now…

 

He sat up ignoring the ache of his abused body. When his head stopped swimming he climbed onto his feet and started walking slowly, stiffly, toward the exit.

 

People stared, others pointed. No one stopped him as he limped, covered in mud and cowl-less, through the streets. It took him almost an hour but at last he found what he was looking for. A taxi rank.

 

He collapsed into the backseat of the nearest car, still clinging to his papers, as the driver stared at him in the rear view mirror.

 

“Wayne Manor.”

 

“But that’s in…”

 

“Do you know who I am?”

 

Bruce saw the man’s eyes dart between his face, the symbol on his chest, and the now iconic scar slithering its way across his throat.

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Then you know I can pay.”

 

It took almost three hours to get there. Bruce lay in the backseat the whole time staring at the stitching on the faux leather seat. When they arrived he staggered out of the car, bypassed the front gate for the second smaller gate hidden in the bushes – the one that Alfred never locked – and began a long slow march up the driveway.

 

Everything smelt so beautiful… looked so alien… but also familiar.

 

He practically ran into the front door, used it to prop himself up, and then hammered on it four times. Nothing happened. He knocked again, harder this time. He was about to knock a third time when it opened.

 

A man stood there.

 

For a moment Bruce didn’t recognise him… then…

 

“Father?”

 

“Damian?”

 

How? How could he have grown so much in a year?

 

Bruce reached out and pulled him forward into a crushing hug. Damian buried his face in his cape and returned it, not seeming to care that he was being smeared with mud, blood, and inky black demon gore.

 

He didn’t know how long he stood there hugging Damian but when he looked up Alfred was there, gently prying the envelope from his hands. He watched the butler rip it open and pull out the release papers. His eyes were wet as he read them.

 

“Welcome home, Master Bruce.”

 

“Bruce? Oh my God, Bruce!”

 

Dick collided with him and Damian hard enough to drive them both back against the wall. The three of them clung to each other in a messy hug.

 

They had known, of course. He had been telling them for weeks that he only had one mission left. But that didn’t tell them when or where he would be released. The squad sometimes had three missions in a week… and sometimes none in a month. On top of that, if the mission was deemed ‘unsuccessful’ by Waller she wouldn’t deduct any time.

 

They had known he was coming home. But they hadn’t known when.

 

And they weren’t the only ones. For weeks he’d been waiting. Waiting for a chance to hold them again. To stand here. To see…

 

He opened his eyes.

 

Clark was standing at the foot of the grand staircase, leaning against the banister and smiling at him.

 

“Hey,” Bruce called.

 

“Hey yourself.”

 

Dick. “Oh my God. I need to show you what I did to the batmobile. It is so much better now.”

 

Damian. “No. I want to show him the new training area. I designed it.”

 

Alfred. “My word, Master Bruce, you are making a mess. I won’t have you stomping around the cave or the training ring in that state.” He touched his cheek. “Hm. You’re also still too thin. I thought you said they fed you better in Belle Reve.”

 

“Better is still not your cooking, Alfred.”

 

“I should think not. I will roast a second chicken tonight. I trust you remember the way to the showers?”

 

He nodded but stayed on the doorstep hugging the boys until the taxi driver came up behind him and nervously knocked on the wood. Alfred paid him triple what he was due and Dick threw in an extra tip when he heard where he had come from. While everyone was distracted Bruce limped across the foyer towards Clark.

 

He leant against him, forehead to forehead.

 

“God you smell good.”

 

Clark grinned. “You don’t.”

 

He grinned, fatigued beyond all reason, and allowed the man to tow him up the stairs towards the master bathroom. The shower was… something else. He had forgotten what it was like to wash in warm water or feel the sting of a solid water pressure. He’d also forgotten what it was like to shower alone. He leant against the wall looking at the empty room feeling estranged and exhausted.

 

After an hour someone knocked on the door.

 

Clark’s voice sounded through the wall. “Bruce? Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah…” he called out and leant against the wall. “Yeah I… I’m okay.” He smiled. “Come in here.”

 

Clark sounded nervous. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Really? I…”

 

“I don’t want anything Clark. I just want… just want to see you.”

 

The door cracked open and a red faced Kryptonian walked in. “The boys really want to show you what they’ve been up to.”

 

“I know.”

 

The man’s eyes tracked down his body. “Alfred’s right. You’re thinner than you should be with that muscle mass.” An angry look snaked across his face. “And your new scars are worse. Don’t they have any decent doctors in prison?”

 

“Clark.”

 

The man looked up. “Yes Bruce.”

 

His eyes were so blue. Bluer than anything Bruce had ever seen before. “You stayed here,” he whispered. “You waited for me.”

 

A small smile. Nervous almost. “You’re surprised?”

 

Bruce thought about it… then slowly shook his head.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

“Will you marry me?”

 

Clark blinked. “I… Bruce… we… it’s…”

 

“Too soon,” Bruce guessed. “I know. I just… thought I would die if I didn’t say that.”

 

“Oh…” Clark looked down and then back at him. “Oh… I…”

 

“Don’t answer,” Bruce rasped. “Not yet.”

 

“When can I answer?”

 

“One year,” Bruce responded. “When you’re used to my blow jobs.”

 

The man blinked and then snorted with laughter. “Bruce I…” his smile changed shape. “I really don’t care about that.”

 

Bruce felt his own smile slip. “As in… you don’t want a sexual…?”

 

“No, Bruce, that’s not what I meant. I want that, I do. I just…” he stepped closer to the edge of the shower, reached through the open door to touch his cheek. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this, just this. Right now, this is… this is everything to me.”

 

“Will you kiss me?”

 

Clark stepped into the shower, not pausing to take off his clothes.

 

This kiss wasn’t like any of the ones that came before. It was slow. Loving… and in it Bruce tasted the answer to his question.


	59. Chapter 59

There were many things in life Clark regretted.

 

He regretted not answering Bruce’s call the night he turned himself in for murder, he regretted all the times he couldn’t keep Bruce safe during his incarceration… but, more than anything else, he regretted the years that came before that. The years he was in love with Bruce Wayne but didn’t realise it. The years they could have shared as something more than friends if only he’d known.

 

Bruce pulled into an empty parking space away from the other cars, killed the engine, and leant against the steering wheel.

 

Clark reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “Hey. Are you okay?”

 

Bruce nodded without looking up.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes. I just…” the man sighed and leant back. Rubbed his brow. “I’m scared of what’s going to walk out of that building.”

 

Clark didn’t know what to say to that. But he did know what to do. He was not going to sit in the car and let Bruce face this alone. He pulled off his glasses and put them in the glove compartment. Combed back his fringe until one lock fell forward across his brow. “Just in case there are camera,” he said when he saw Bruce watching.

 

“Right,” the man smiled ruefully. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know I married Clark Kent.”

 

“Only Superman,” Clark agreed and pulled off the bulky brown jacket and stuffed it behind the seat. He didn’t undress further. The world knew Bruce Wayne was Batman and that Batman was with Superman. What they didn’t know was that Superman was Clark Kent… and while he had been willing to give up his secret identity for Bruce the man had instead asked the opposite of him.

 

His identity would remain a secret.

 

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t stand beside Bruce when it really mattered.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

Bruce smiled. “Let’s.”

 

Before they could step out of the car a body thudded up against the driver’s side window.

 

Clark rolled his eyes as he saw the face grinning through the glass. “Mr Batman!” Bruce sent him a rueful smile before pushing open the door and standing to receive a hug from the newcomer.

 

Bruce. “I thought I might see you here.”

 

“Fuck yeah! Where else would I be? I’ve been waiting _years_ for this.”

 

King didn’t look like the boy Clark had pulled out of prison five years earlier. His hair was long, chin hidden beneath a patchy blonde beard, and arms sleeved with tattoos of elaborate twisting rose vines. Only one homemade tattoo was still visible… and that was the bat peeking between the thorns on his tricep

 

“It’s weird, huh?” King whispered. “Being here.”

 

King and Bruce stopped hugging and turned together to look towards the compound overshadowing the carpark.

 

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed. “Weird.”

 

Blackgate Petitionary looked like it had the day Bruce had been led into the building. Dark stone walls, bulky iron doors, small looming windows. All of it surrounded by rocky cliffs overhanging the roughest part of Gotham River.

 

Clark walked around the car to stand with them as the pair studied it and waited.

 

Bruce reached out and took his hand.

 

Clark felt his wedding ring against his skin.

 

Their marriage had been unofficial. It didn’t matter. The piece of paper didn’t matter. All that mattered was Bruce had stood in front of their friends and family and said ‘I do’. That was three years ago. One year after Bruce had first proposed to him as he stood in the shower washing away whatever Waller had made him do to make it back to the family.

 

Blackgate’s doors cracked open and two men stepped out. Both had brown shirts, blue jeans, and black bags. Both looked stunned and not a little bit scared as they faced the world outside the prison walls.

 

King waved. “Rick! Ricky! Over here!”

 

The man – he was a man now, he couldn’t be mistaken for a boy anymore – saw the gesture and walked slowly towards them. King wasn’t short… but he looked it when he hugged Ricky. “You made it. I knew you would.”

 

Ricky stared for a moment before a spark of recognition danced across his gaze. “King?”

 

King hushed him. “It’s Danny now, not King. New name. New life.”

 

He frowned. “Danny?”

 

“Yeah. Mr Batman picked it out. I wanted to be Griffin or Leo but its better this way. No one suspects nothing. I can go to the mansion sometimes too if I use the secret roads so I’ll be able to see you. You’re in for a real fucking treat, dude. Batman’s house is _sweet_. The parole officer will shit himself when he sees how you’re living. Spa baths and big screens. Wait! I almost forgot!” King pulled a phone out of his pocket and gave it to Ricky. “I know how to text now. And Snapchat. We should Snapchat.”

 

Ricky. “Snapchat?”

 

“It’s easy. I’ll show you…”

 

“Wait,” Ricky looked at the phone in his hand, looked at Bruce, and then reached up to pull the Justice League communicator from his ear. The same communicator Clark had dropped into the prison years before.

 

Ricky held it out to Bruce. “Thanks I… I think it… being able to talk to King and you these last years…”

 

Bruce took it. Gave it straight to Clark.

 

Ricky’s eyes slipped to him, narrowed, and then widened. He blinked. Looked away. Looked back again.

 

“Can we go now?” King asked.

 

“No.”

 

Clark frowned. “No?”

 

“Just…” Bruce’s eyes were sharp. “Wait a moment.” He walked away from them, his hand slipped out of Clark’s.

 

Clark’s frowned deepened as he watched Bruce walk across the parking lot towards the second prisoner that had been released. The man saw him approach and shied nervously away from him.

 

“Who are you? What do you…?” The man’s eyes widened. “Batman? I…”

 

“I told you I would be here.”

 

The man cowered back, his gaze flicking between Bruce’s face and the scar on his neck. “Please… don’t…”

 

Gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

“W-what?”

 

“Who’s coming to pick you up?”

  
  
“My mum. I have to stay with her now. For parole…”

 

“Good,” Bruce reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “I want you to call me when you get home. Can you do that?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I want to give you a job.”

 

The man’s eye flashed. “Why?”

 

“Because you need one.”

 

“But… why?”

 

Again. “Because you need one.” Bruce took the man’s hand and pushed the business card into it. “And I need workers.”

 

“Thank y—”

 

“Don’t thank me. It’s cleaning bathrooms.”

 

The man looked at Bruce, looked at the card, and looked down at the ground. “Cleaning bathrooms…” It was a dull echo. “That’s funny.”

 

“I’m not making a joke.”

 

“Still funny.” The man didn’t look up. “You know, I never figured out why you didn’t rat me out.”

 

Bruce didn’t say anything.

 

“You really going to give me a job?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A car, old and red bounced dangerously low over a speed bump as it entered the parking lot. The driver, an older woman with dyed red hair, waved one arm out the window.

 

“I got to go,” the man said and quickly stepped away from Bruce. He climbed in beside the driver without giving her a second look and the pair sped away as quickly as they had arrived.

 

Clark watched Bruce as he slowly came back to stand by his side. He didn’t know who the other ex-prisoner was. He didn’t think Bruce wanted to tell him. He knew better than to push him. Despite Clark witnessing as much as he did, there were still a lot of things that happened while Bruce was in prison that he didn’t know about. Some he doubted he would ever know about.

 

But that was something he had accepted long ago. He didn’t need to know everything about Bruce to know he loved every single part of him. The part of him that drove him to be a hero, the part of him that drove him to leave, and the part of him which had brought him back.

 

“You okay?”

 

Bruce smiled. The action smaller and sadder than usual but still there.

 

King was still talking to Ricky. Ricky was still looking around as if he hadn’t fully grasped what had just happened or where he was.

 

“We should get him home,” Clark said.

 

“If we take him straight to Wayne Manor after Blackgate he’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.”

 

Clark cocked an eyebrow. “Oh come on. It’s a beautiful house but there are some chips in the paint here and there.”

 

“Thanks to Damian’s sword,” Bruce agreed dryly. “But what I was talking about was Alfred’s cooking.”

 

He grinned. “Oh, well, in that case…”

 

“Mr Batman!” King turned towards them. “Can I show Ricky the batmobile? Oh man, you gotta see it.”

 

“You know I don’t have a batmobile,” Bruce said with a sly grin. “I’m retired.”

 

“It’s so cool,” King insisted. “I’ll show you when we get there.” He looked at Bruce. “We can go now, right?”

 

Bruce looked at King, at Ricky, and then at the prison. Finally he nodded.

 

King hopped back on his motorbike. Ricky sat in the passenger seat beside Bruce. Clark piled into the back and watched his husband’s fingers wrap with lazy confidence around the hand break and then the gear stick as they pulled away. He shifted to second gear as they moved across the carpark, and then first as he paused at a stop sign.

 

For a moment Clark saw the way Bruce touched Clark in that gesture. Easy, assertive. It wasn’t always like that. When they’d first slept together it had been oddly demure. Bruce wasn’t used to being touched after so long in prison and Clark was scared to admit how eager he was, or how much longer it had been for him than it was for Bruce. It had been full of slow touches and deep kisses.

 

Now it was different. Now they touched each other with confidence. Now…

 

Bruce looked at him in the rear view mirror.

 

He smiled back.

 

“Hey,” Ricky said, surprising Clark and turned to look at him. “You’re Superman, aren’t you?”

 

“I…”

 

“Like, if you don’t want to tell me that’s okay. I just… you look like him and with Batman and…”

 

“Yes,” Clark answered. “I am.”

 

“You are?”

 

“Superman.”

 

Ricky opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and then opened it again. Finally… “You were my favourite superhero growing up.”

 

Clark smiled. “Thanks.”

 

“And…” he hesitated again.

 

Bruce kept driving, silent.

 

“And,” Ricky said again, “King told me about you. How you helped teach him to read and were normal even with the powers. Like, you use your heat vision to cook popcorn and stuff which sounded… it’s stupid but I… when I was away I thought about King meeting you and how normal you were and I… I always wanted to meet you. And with what everyone was saying with Batman and you I thought maybe, when I got out, I…”

 

Clark’s smile felt frozen in place.

 

He had always assumed Ricky was like King and that it was Batman that he looked up to and admired. He never thought it might be him or that his admiration would be anything more than passing. He suddenly felt guilty for not taking the communicator off King and taking ten minutes to talk to the kid who, unlike King or Bruce, was serving his full time… yet somehow still not bitter about it.

 

“I’m staying at the manor,” Clark told him. “I’m sure I can cook you some popcorn sometime.”

 

“Tha—”

 

“You don’t need to thank me. It’ll be fun. Though, I have to warn you, in that house you might get a batarang thrown at you if you hog the popcorn.”

 

Ricky’s ears darkened and lips threatened toward a smile. He turned back to look out the window, staring with a strange mix of wonder and fear at the landscape rolling past. “You’re not really retired,” he said softly. “I saw you with the Justice League on TV. Your mask was off. I know it was you.”

 

Bruce grunted. “Certain missions are socially acceptable. Fighting aliens is one of them. I am allowed to come out of retirement for them.”

 

“What about the stuff you’re not allowed to come out of retirement for?”

 

Clark studied Bruce in the rear view mirror, interested in his answer.

 

“I don’t patrol,” Bruce said carefully. “And there are other Batmen now. I am not needed.”

 

“Does that mean you don’t ever do anything else?”

 

Bruce was silent for a long time. Then… “It’s different now. It’s not… like it was. I can’t be like I was. But I can still help people. Maybe what I am now is better.” Softer. “I don’t arrest as many but perhaps I help more. I… I hope I do.”

 

“Hope?” Ricky sounded worried. “You _hope_? But, like… what does that even mean?”

 

“Hey,” Clark leant forward, to the rescue. “Hope’s my shtick and, professional bias aside, I think it’s pretty awesome stuff.” He looked at Ricky then back at Bruce. “I don’t want to preach or anything but – speaking from experience here – you never _know_. You’re always, to some degree, hoping. And I think that’s good. There is a lot that could happen. There is a lot to keep hoping for. There is a lot to keep _fighting_ for. No matter what.”

 

“Wow,” Ricky looked like he was caught somewhere between enthralled and uncomfortable. “Um… okay.”

 

“Don’t mind him,” Bruce said. “He’s given too many inspirational speeches. Sometimes he can’t turn it off.”

 

Clark knew Bruce was secretly grateful though. He could see it in the small lines of his face. Being Batman was part of who Bruce was. It always would be. But his relationship with the cowl and with that part of himself was strained. Perhaps that too was a constant. An ongoing struggle that Bruce had been fighting for years. Or perhaps it was something that had been unearthed in the wake of everything that had happened. Clark wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure it mattered either. All that mattered was that he was here to help Bruce just as Bruce was here for him.

 

He had learnt a lot while watching Bruce, and even more when Bruce went to Belle Reve and Clark’s contact with him became even more minimal. He had learnt that he was strong enough to be alone and to support those he loved. He learnt that it wasn’t blood that made a family but who you fought for. But, most of all, he learnt that he wasn’t alone.

 

Not really. Not ever.


End file.
